Recollections And Essays

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RECOLLECTIONS
& ESSAYS

By
LEO TOLSTOY

Translated

with an Introduction by
AYLMER MAUD

GEOFFREY CUMBERLEGE

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

LEO ToLST6v

Born: Yasnaya Polyana, Tula

August 28 (Old Style) = September 9 (New Style), 1828
Died : Astapovo, Riazan
November 7 (Old Style) «= November 20 (New Style), 1910

The articles, jottings, and letters which comprise 'Recollections and
Essays' were written between 1890 and 79/0. In the 'Woiid's
Classics' 'Recollections and Essays' was jirst published in 7937
and reprinted in 1946.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION, by AYLMER MAUDE . . vii

'RECOLLECTIONS.' Jottings made in 1902 and in 1908 i
WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 1890 67
THE FIRST STEP. 1892 .... 90
NON-ACTING. 1893 . . . .136

AN AFTERWORD TO FAMINE ARTICLES. 1893 171
MODERN SCIENCE. 1898 . . . .176

AN INTRODUCTION TO RUSKIN'S WORKS.
1899 . . . . . .188

LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE. 1897 . .189

•THOU SHALT NOT KILL/ 1900 . .195

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 1904 . . .204

A GREAT INIQUITY. 1905 . . .272

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA. 1906 . 307

WHAT'S TO BE DONE? 1906 . . .384

I CANNOT BE SILENT. 1908 . . -395

A LETTER TO A HINDU. 1908 . . .413

GANDHI LETTERS. 1910 . . . -433

LETTER TO A JAPANESE. 1910 . . . 440

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN. 1910 . . 446

THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS . 494

INDEX TO THIS VOLUME . . .501

GENERAL INDEXES

INTRODUCTION

npHis volume is a reproduction of the final
A volume of the Centenary Edition, which was
the first edition of Tolstoy's works in any language
so arranged as to show the sequence and develop-
ment of his views.

From the first, but especially from the time he
wrote Confession, the censor constantly suppressed
or mutilated Tolstoy's works and at times even
interpolated sentences he had not written. This
occasioned many perplexities. Clandestine hecto-
graphed and mimeographed editions of some of
his writings began to circulate, and these at times
contained errors and omissions wrhich were after-
wards reproduced in translations. Tolstoy's wife,
wishing to include in her edition any portions of
his prohibited \\orks the censor could be induced
to pass, introduced these under various headings,
and such fragments were often mistaken for fresh
works by Tolstoy, thus adding to the confusion
which was again increased by the mistakes of care-
less or incompetent translators. For instance, in
an American collected edition which absurdly pro-
fessed to be 'complete', the editor included three
compilations a friend of Tolstoy's had made from
undated fragments of private letters and rejected
drafts. Against the publication of these Tolstoy
issued a protest, saying that he refused to be held
responsible for them.

The premature publication of part of a work as
though it were complete often placed editors in
a difficulty when the rest of the work was subse-
quently released, and they took little trouble to
explain what had happened. The collected edi-
tions of Tolst6y's works originally published in

viii INTRODUCTION

America arc therefore far from doing him justice

or rendering it easy for readers to understand his

works.

Tolstoy once remarked that a chief quality of an
artist is to know what to strike out, and said that
he wished to be judged only by works he himself
had selected for publication and of which he had
corrected the proofs. When he died, however, he
authorized his friend V. G. Chertkov to deal with
his writings as he thought best, and Chertkov
decided to publish everything, including a mass
of posthumous stories and diaries, neither of which
were in Tolstoy's opinion worth publishing, as he
told me the year before he died.

The collected library Centenary Edition was the
first in any language to present his works in due
sequence and to assemble in separate volumes what
he wrote on various subjects. The same transla-
tions are given in the volumes of the World's
Classics, but as these are sold separately the reader
has not the same guidance as to the sequence and
development of Tolst6y's thought.

Considering how previous editions have been
arranged, it is scarcely surprising that Mr. Naza-
rofTs well-written biography of Tolstoy published
in 1930 should be entitled Tolstdy, the Inconstant
Genius. That no doubt represents a very common
opinion, but it is really quite wide of the mark
for very few men have ever been so consistent as
Tolst6y in the pursuit of a single aim: that of
uniting all men. He never lost sight of the vision
which delighted him in boyhood, when his brother
Nicholas told of the 'green stick, the inscription on
which would, when disclosed, make all men happy
... no one would be angry with anybody and all
would love one another5. And his constant and
conscious desire throughout the last thirty years

INTRODUCTION be

of his life was that all men should be united in
such a clear view of truth that all discord, strife,
and enmity among them would end.

Every subject he dealt with — whether it was
religion, war, art, or anything else — he approached
from that one central outlook, and the underlying
connexion of them all is easy to perceive. To-day,
for instance, when the nations are actively arming
against one another, one notes in his Confession
that a main cause of his questioning the teachings
of the Church was the fact that it approved of war
or connived at it.

In What is Art? he points out that by means of art
feelings are transmitted from man to man and thus
become general.

For ages much of the world's best art, and not
the best art only — Homer's battles, David's re-
joicings at the destruction of his enemies, the story
of how well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave
days of old, Henry V's heroics, The Battle of the
Baltic, The Charge of the Light Brigade, Kipling's
The Soldiers of the Queen, and similar works in all
countries — has caused succeeding generations to
regard war as a glorious adventure to be welcomed
and enjoyed.

How, then, can we reasonably hope for permanent
peace in the atmosphere produced by so potent
an organ? Modification or rearrangement of the
League of Nations is of minor importance com-
pared with the influence of art, but this is as yet
hardly recognized and Tolstoy's works on the sub-
ject have been met by ridicule and denunciation,
though no one else has so clearly shown how potent
is the influence of art on all phases of life, and how
necessary for the betterment of human life a due
understanding of that influence is.

A curious instance of the difficulties the attempt

x INTRODUCTION

to convey Tolst6y's meaning to our public has
encountered, occurred in connexion with the book
just referred to. Tolstoy entrusted the translation
of What is Art? to me, but left the arrangements
for its publication to his literary factotum, Mr.
V. G. Chertk6v. The latter injudiciously entrusted
the book to a third-rate publishing house, The
Brotherhood Publishing Company. The manager
of that firm received the translation in advance
of the book's appearance in Russia and before it
reached any other country. Noticing that it con-
tained a chapter which mentioned in scathing
terms some forty French poets, novelists, and
painters of the day, he unscrupulously sold that
chapter for publication in a Paris monthly maga-
zine in advance of the book's publication. The
other chapters explain Tolstoy's attitude towards
the artists he mentioned — symbolists, decadents,
and others — but when this chapter appeared by
itself in the magazine they took it as a gratuitous,
unprovoked, and personal assault, and directly the
book came out it was virulently attacked, grossly
misrepresented, ridiculed, and denounced by
almost the whole literary, artistic, and critical world
of Paris.

The excitement aroused in Paris influenced the
book's reception in England. Directly it appeared
Mr. H. D. Traill, the editor of Literature (the fore-
runner of the Times Literary Supplement) , had a
leading article on it in which he said that 'there
never was any reason for inferring . . . that Count
Tolstoi's (sic) opinions on the philosophy of art
would be worth the paper on which they are
written'. He added that he held himself absolved
from discussing Count Tolstoi's (sic) 'fantastic
doctrines seriously', but remarked that their ex-
pounder 'surpasses all other advocates of this same

INTRODUCTION xi

theory in perverse unreason', and that 'this is
Tolstoi's (sic) chief distinction among aesthetic
circle-squarers. . . . Nobody, however eminent as a
novelist, has any business to invite his fellow-men
to step with him outside the region of sanity and
sit down beside him like Alice beside the Hatter
and the March Hare for the solemn examination
of so lunatic a thesis as this . . . clotted nonsense.'

Other critics hardly went to such an extreme of
ridicule and denunciation, but most of them took
more or less the same line of declining to discuss
Tolstoy's theory seriously and imputing to him
absurdities he had not uttered, so that they
practically invited Bernard Shaw's remark that
4the book is a most effective booby-trap. It is
written with so utter a contempt for the objections
which the routine critic is sure to allege against
it, that many a dilettantist reviewer has already
accepted it as a butt set up by Providence to show
off his own brilliant marksmanship'. Shaw added,
of Tolstoy's chief assault on the prevalent aesthetic
theory of that day, that 'our generation has not
seen a heartier bout of literary fisticuffs, nor one
in which the challenger has been more brilliantly
victorious'.

One of Tolstoy's opinions that particularly
exasperated the professional aestheticians was his
statement that since art is the transmission of
feeling from man to man, to be susceptible to the
influence of art it is essential not to have lost 'that
simple feeling familiar to the plainest man and
even to a child, the sense of infection with another's
feeling — compelling us to rejoice in another's
gladness, to sorrow at another's grief, and to mingle
souls with another — which is the very essence of
art'. They were especially provoked by his saying
that many people who have become specialists in

xii INTRODUCTION

one or other branch of art have by this very
specialization of their life and occupation perverted
that simple feeling, and become immune to art —
with which they deal so eruditely — while children,
savages, and peasants who are not perverted in
that way and have retained their capacity to share
the feelings of others, can readily respond to such
art as is suitable for them.

What the critics particularly objected to was the
statement that for ca country peasant of unper-
verted taste5 (that is, a man who can share the
feelings of his fellow men) 'it is as easy to select
the work of art he requires (which infects him with
the feeling experienced by the artist) as it is for
an animal of unspoilt scent to follow the trace he
needs among a thousand others in wood or forest'.

This was fantastically misrepresented as claiming
for the peasant some peculiar quality making him
a touchstone or criterion of art — not only of the
work of art he requires, but of all art of all ages and
all nations and all classes of mankind. In other
words it was supposed to show that Tolstoy was
a semi-lunatic; whereas what he claimed for the
child, the savage, and the peasant, he claimed for
every man — namely, that if he has not perverted
his capacity to share another's feelings, he will
have retained the capacity to respond to the art
he requires.

Given the personal animosity aroused by the
premature publication of a detached chapter of the
book, and the readiness of critics at a time of excite-
ment to repeat what someone else has emphatically
declared, it is not very strange that the first reception
of the book should have been so hostile. What is
extraordinary is the tenacity with which this absurd
misrepresentation has been repeated during a whole
generation and is still kept alive.

INTRODUCTION xiii

What is Art? was published in 1898, and in 1919
George Moore dealt with it in his Avowals. He
tells us ofTolst6y that

'in imitation of the early hermits he elected to live in a
sheeling, but in a sheeling that communicates with folding
doors with his wife's apartment. And he will not sleep
upon a spring-mattress, he must have a feather-bed, the
one he sleeps upon costs more than any spring- mattress.
His rooms are quite plain, but to paint and heat them
to his liking workmen had to be brought from England.'

All this — the sbeeling, the folding doors, the
feather-bed, the painting and special heating of
his room, as well as the 'workmen brought from
England' — is pure invention with no scrap of
foundation in fact, and is in flat contradiction to
the evidence of those who knew Tolst6y and lived
with him. Its apparent object is to prejudice the
reader and prepare him to accept the misrepre-
sentation of Tolstoy's works which follows. Moore
suggests that Tolstoy's touchstone of art was the
peasant, and adds:

'Which peasant, we ask — Russian, English, or French?
Is he or she fifteen or sixty? Is he or she the most
intelligent in the village? Or is he or she the least
intelligent? are the questions put to Tolstoy, and his
answer is: The peasant representing the average in-
telligence of the village. Why should the lowest intelli-
gence be excluded ? If the peasant is the best judge of
what is art, why should not the best art be produced by
peasants ?'

Now, it is simply untrue that Tolstoy gave any
such answer. Moore invents it to add verisimilitude
to the otherwise bald and unconvincing assertion
that Tolstoy's touchstone of art is the peasant. He
finishes off his remarkable effort in criticism by
asking what is
'the value of this exhibition of Tolst6y's hard, isolated,

xiv INTRODUCTION

tenacious apprehensions? It seems/ he says, 'that
Nature has answered this question by devising a death
for Tolstoy that reads so like an admonition that we
cannot but suspect the eternal wisdom of a certain
watchfulness over human life. . . . Can we doubt that
Saint Helena, with Napoleon gazing blankly at the
ocean, carries a meaning, and is not the end that Nature
devised for Tolst6y as significant, a flight from his wife
and home in his eighty-second year and his death in the
waiting-room of a wayside station in the early hours of
a March morning?'

Had George Moore lived to read Count Sergius
Tolstoy's book, The Final Struggle, he might not
have been so sure of Nature's purpose. But let it
here suffice to notice that, in addition to the other
mis-statements of which his article is full, he
manages to cram three more into that last sentence.
Tolstoy was not in his eighty-second year but in his
eighty-third, he died not in a waiting-room but
in a house the station-master had vacated for his
use, and unless Moore thought it sounded well, I
do not know why he should say that Tolst6y died
'in the early hours of a March morning', when he
actually died in November.

In fact, George Moore was writing very spitefully
about a man of whom he knew very little and
about a book he completely misunderstood. It is
surprising to find Miss Rebecca West acclaiming
his article as 'among the major glories of English
criticism', but that, too, is a reminder that the fit of
hysteria that affected the literary world when What
is Art? appeared, with its bold attempt to set art
on a new basis, has not yet quite died down, though
nearly forty years have passed since its publication.

The survival of the myth of a peasantry that
furnishes a touchstone for art is indicated by two
recent publications. Gerald Abraham's well- written
and generally impartial life of Tolst6y (Duck-

INTRODUCTION xv

worth's Great Lives Series, 1935) repeated the state-
ment that Tolstoy considered he had found a 'surer
touchstone than his own individual taste in the taste
of the ideal peasant, or, as we should say, the plain
man who knows what he likes'. And Mr. H. W.
Garrod, in a Taylorian Lecture published by the
Clarendon Press, says that for Tolstoy 'the judge
of art is not the intelligent man; he is in fact the
peasant5. In a subsequent letter, however, he made
the penetrating remark that when Tolstoy attri-
butes a capacity to recognize art to a peasant
whose natural qualities have not been perverted
by spurious art or otherwise '. . . he is saying of the
peasant what would be equally true of the noble-
man, and in respect of either tautologous'. That
hits the nail precisely on the head, and had critics
perceived it from the first, all this pother about the
peasant's exceptional appreciation of art would
never have arisen.

It all shows how badly needed is an edition
properly grouping together Tolstoy's articles on
kindred subjects. In the Oxford Press editions What
is Art? is followed by an article by Tolstoy on a
German novel he liked. In that article he says:

'To that enormously important question, "What, of
all that has been written, is one to read ?" only real
criticism can furnish a reply: criticism which, as Matthew
Arnold says, sets itself the task of bringing to the front
and pointing out to people all that is best, both in former
and in contemporary writers.

'On whether such disinterested criticism, which under-
stands and loves art and is independent of any party,
makes its appearance or not, and on whether its autho-
rity becomes sufficiently established for it to be stronger
than mercenary advertisement, depends, in my opinion,
the decision of the question whether the last rays of
enlightenment are to perish in our so-called European
society without having reached the masses of the people,

xvi INTRODUCTION

or whether they will revive as they did in the Middle
Ages, and reach the great mass of the people who are
now without any enlightenment.'

That makes it perfectly clear that Tolstoy did
not imagine that an unaided peasant would be
able to select for himself the best that has been
written. But those who attack What is Art? have
generally not read what else Tolst6y wrote on the
subject, and to make it appear that Tolstoy was
talking nonsense have selected a single line detached
from the main argument.

It is probably due to the abuse with which What
is Art? was originally received that it has been
generally ignored by writers on aesthetics — despite
its originality and the great practical importance
of an understanding of the relation in which art
stands to the rest of life.

Bosanquet's Aesthetics, for instance, does not
even mention it, and Croce dismisses it in two
slighting sentences.

The article on Famine Relief in this volume is
the last one of a series written during the two years
that Tolstoy and his daughters devoted to the
arduous task of organizing relief on a large scale
in the famine district. The Government wished
it not to be known that there was a famine, and
Tolstoy's articles were forbidden by the censor.
But when a translation of some of them appeared
in the Daily Telegraph in January 1892, one was
promptly and inexactly retranslated by the re-
actionary Moscow Gazette, which supplemented it
by extracts from other writings of Tolst6y's so
arranged as to suggest that he was inciting the
peasants to revolt. The Gazette added a demand
that he should be suppressed as a dangerous
revolutionary, and that cry was taken up by other
reactionary papers. Matters went so far that

INTRODUCTION xvii

Durnovo, the Minister of the Interior, submitted a
proposal to the Tsar that Tolst6y should be confined
in Suzdal Monastery prison (where two Uniate
Bishops, after twenty-three years' confinement, had
been forgotten by the authorities who had had them
arrested) . The Tsar rejected the proposal, but that
was far from being the end of the attacks upon
Tolstoy.

He was reproached with having published abuse
of Russia in the English papers, and while he
was engaged in the famine district of Riazan his
wife sent a letter to the papers denying that he
had sent anything to any English paper. This was
verbally correct, but was misleading in its sugges-
tion that the translation of his Famine Article in
the Daily Telegraph was a fabrication. Dr. Dillon
(who had translated it for the Daily Telegraph, but
whose name had not appeared* there) saw a first-
rate opportunity to advertise himself and estab-
lish connexion with influential individuals and
groups in Church and State who were bent on
Tolstoy's destruction. Though Tolstoy gave him
a written acknowledgement that the article in
question was genuine, this did not prevent Dillon
from insinuating that Tolstoy had equivocated,
treated him badly, and failed to stick to his guns.
These insinuations were eagerly taken up by the
reactionary Russian press, and complications and
misunderstandings were piled one on another. As
it happens, a prolonged examination of Dr. Dillon's
accusation is rendered unnecessary by his posthu-
mous volume which appeared in 1934, having for
frontispiece a facsimile of part of a letter written
by Tolst6y in Russian, to which is appended the
underline: 'Tolstoy's letter of apology to Dillon
for repudiation of his word.' This is evidently
intended to impress readers with the reliability

xviii INTRODUCTION

and authenticity of Dillon's book. But fortunately
the letter of which he reproduced a portion has
been published in full in Russia, and proves not to
be what Dr. Dillon represents it as being, but
merely to contain an expression of Tolstoy's regret
for having omitted to answer a letter.

That discreditable trick is characteristic of
Dr. Dillon's tactics throughout the affair, as well
as of the tactics pursued by the Moscow Gazette and
the reactionary press generally.

During Tolstoy's absence in the famine district
pressure was brought to bear on his family by
the Governor-General of Moscow, who wanted
them to secure from Tolstoy a substantiation of his
wife's published suggestion that he had not written
the articles attributed to him. His wife accordingly
tried to get him to write something to placate
the authorities and lessen the danger he was in.
But he wrould do nothing of the kind, and in his
reply to her said:

'I write what I think and what cannot please the
Government or the wealthy classes. I have been doing
this for the last twelve years not casually but deliberately,
and do not intend to justify myself for so doing. . . . Only
ignorant people — of whom the most ignorant are those
who form the Court — reading what I have written can
suppose that views such as mine can suddenly change
one fine day and become revolutionary.'

Though Tolstoy was not physically molested he
was persistently harassed and persecuted. During
his famine work he was repeatedly denounced
from the pulpit as Antichrist, and later on he was
excommunicated by the Holy Synod. His secretary
and several of his friends were banished and his
life repeatedly threatened by reactionary patriots
who were exasperated by his exposure of govern-
mental abuses and his condemnation of prepara-

INTRODUCTION xix

tions for war, the persecution of dissenters, and the
discovery and announcement by the Church of
the 'incorruptible' bodies of newly devised saints.

Surrounded as Tolstoy was by obstacles, dis-
couragements, and dangers during those years of
strenuous famine-relief work, it is wonderful that
he found time and energy to write The Kingdom
of God is Within Tou, the twelfth chapter of which
is an artistic gem comparable to his other auto-
biographical masterpieces in Confession and What
Then Must We Do?

It was with reference especially to this period of
Tolstoy's life that Bernard Shaw (after making a
passing reference to the Russian saying that 'nothing
matters provided the baby is not crying') wrote:

'If you have a baby who can speak with Tsars in the
gate, who can make Europe and America stop and
listen when he opens his mouth, who can smite with
unerring aim straight at the sorest spots in the world's
conscience, who can break through all censorships and
all barriers of language, who can thunder on the gates
of the most terrible prisons in the world and place his
neck under the keenest and bloodiest axes only to find
that for him the gates dare not open and the axes dare
not fall, then indeed you have a baby that must be
nursed and coddled and petted and let go his own way.*

It remains to say something about the other
articles in this volume.

Most of the Recollections appear now for the first
time in English. No precise date can be given to
them, for they are a collection of rough, unrevised
notes jotted down by Tolstoy at various times, not
for publication but for the information of friends
and biographers who asked for them. They are,
however, so characteristic of Tolstoy and show so
keenly treasured a memory of his happy boyhood,
that though they are disjointed it seemed a pity

xx INTRODUCTION

to omit them. They do not provide a connected
narrative of his early years, but I have brought
them together in what seems a natural sequence.
Some of them have already been given in vol. i of
my Life of Tolstoy in this edition, and wherever
such citations are of any length I have, to avoid
repetition, referred to the page where they can
be found. When, owing to the disjointed nature
of these recollections, it seemed desirable to insert
some comment of my own, this has been done in
square brackets.

The other contents of the volume are chiefly
essays dealing in Tolst6y's masterly manner with
important subjects, and it is remarkable to note
how fresh and topical they still are some forty years
after they were written.

Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves? is probably as
powerful and persuasive an essay as was ever
written on the evils of drink. Tolstoy was as keen
on that subject as any Prohibitionist in the United
States, but his non-resistant views saved him from
the error of wishing to invoke the aid of physical
force and Prohibition Laws to combat the evil he
deplored.

The First Step, the best vegetarian essay I ever
read, is still as applicable and persuasive as when
it was penned.

Non-Acting, apart from the interest of juxtaposing
Zola's speech and Dumas's article, presents Tolst6y 5s
view of a question the understanding of which is as
necessary for the welfare of mankind now as it was
then.

Modern Science, Tolst6y's introduction to an essay
of Edward Carpenter's, deals with a matter on
which his views (not always expressed with due
moderation) have often been misunderstood. It
may be considered a companion article to his reply

INTRODUCTION xxi

to Thomas Huxley's Romanes Lecture of 1894
(given in the essay Religion and Morality in the volume
On Life and Essays on Religion), which goes to the
root of a matter of vital importance that still sorely
perplexes many minds.

The Introduction to Ruskin is a note Tolstoy con-
tributed to a booklet of extracts from Ruskin issued
by the Posrednik firm that did so much to make
first-rate literature accessible to the Russian people.

Letters on Henry George and A Great Iniquity deal
with a matter on which Tolstoy felt very strongly.
He sympathized with the peasants' grievance at
having to go short of land while men who did not
work on it owned large estates which some of them
had never even seen. Henry George's plan for the
taxation of land -values seemed to him by far the
most just and practicable way of dealing with
the matter; and looking back now, one can see how
much the adoption of that plan would have done
to mitigate the worst evils of the Revolution that
was then approaching.

Allowing the peasants' grievances to rankle
enabled the Revolutionaries to set them against
the landed proprietors and created the confusion
amid which it was possible for a small group of
men to seize absolute power. Had the Henry
George system been adopted, not only could the
peasants' taxation have been greatly lightened but
the peasants would have seen that the possession
of land carried with it an obligation to contribute
to the public expenditure and would therefore
have been less eager to seize it and less credulous of
the promises made by the Revolutionaries.

The introduction of that system would also have
done much to save the landowners from the whole-
sale expropriation they had to endure in 1917 and
1918. This was one of many instances in which

xxii INTRODUCTION

Tolstoy saw further and more clearly into a complex
problem than the 'practical' men who refused to
listen to his advice.

Thou Shalt Not Kill relates to the assassination
of King Humbert of Italy by an anarchist in 1900.
It forcibly expresses Tolstoy's conviction that it is
an evil thing whether for private individuals or for
kings to kill their fellow men.

Bethink Yourselves!, written at the time of the
Japanese war, was once more a dangerous article
for Tolstoy to write while efforts were being made
to arouse patriotic enthusiasm among the people.
His fearlessness in uttering what no one else could
say with such power was one of the qualities that
marked him out as standing head and shoulders
above any of his contemporaries. He appeared
as a hero and a prophet and not merely a great
writer. What is said in Bethink Yourselves! had to
a large extent been said before in The Kingdom of
God is Within You and Christianity and Patriotism, but
its immediate application to the facts of the Russo-
Japanese war and to the state of Russia at that
preliminary stage of the Revolution added to the
significance of a message that was equally appli-
cable ten years later at the time of the Great War
and will still be as applicable when the next war
comes.

The long article on Shakespeare and the Drama
would have placed me in a dilemma had it not
fortunately happened that Professor G. Wilson
Knight, an ardent admirer of the English dramatist
and an acknowledged authority on his works, has
dealt very ably with it in his article Shakespeare
and Tolstoy, published by the English Association.
Few readers of Shakespeare would fail to benefit
by a careful perusal of Tolst6y's attack and Wilson
Knight's defence. The professor is so sure of his

INTRODUCTION xxiii

ground that he can afford to be just to Tolstoy, and
in the course of his article he says:

'We find "characterization" not only not the Shakespear-
ian essence, but actually the most penetrable spot to
adverse criticism that may be discovered in his technique.
Thence two great minds have directed their hostility —
Tolstoy and Bridges. I shall show that those attacks on
Shakespeare, often perfectly justifiable within limits, are
yet based on a fundamental misunderstanding of his
art; but that such misunderstanding is nevertheless
extremely significant and valuable, since it forces our
appreciation and interpretation from excessive psycho-
logies of "character" . . . into the true substance and
solidity of Shakespeare's dramatic poetry.'

In another passage he speaks of Tolstoy's Essays
on Art as

'a massive collection of some of the most masculine,
incisive, and important criticism that exists: all, whether
we agree or disagree, of so rock-like an integrity and
simplicity that its effect is invariably tonic and in-
vigorating, and often points us directly, as in this essay-
on Shakespeare, to facts before unobserved, yet both
obvious and extremely significant.'

What V to be Done?, written amid the strikes and
disturbances of the first revolution (in 1905-6), was
a fresh statement of Tolstoy's conviction that no
good would result from men killing one another.
For much more than a thousand years physical
force has been relied on to secure peace and
harmony among mankind. But an increasingly
large number of men now seem to object to being
killed or even to preparing to kill other people.
The progress of science in the preparation of deadly
bacterial bombs and poison gases and improved
flying-machines has brought us within easy reach
of utter destruction; but Tolstoy thought that it
was not too much to hope that, before we all perish,

xxiv INTRODUCTION

we may have time to face the fundamental question
whether reliance on wholesale or retail murder
does afford the best hope for the physical and
spiritual salvation of mankind. Man's body must
in any case perish, and to imperil his soul by
relying on murder to safeguard his life and pro-
perty seemed to Tolst6y both senseless and wicked.

Of all that Tolst6y wrote in his last year, I Cannot
Be Silent produced the greatest sensation in Russia.
Its occasion was the introduction by Stolypin,
the Prime Minister, of field courts-martial which
hanged many revolutionaries, or people accused
of being such. This outraged Tolstoy's pro-
foundest feelings. Since the time of Catherine the
Great the death penalty had, at least theoreti-
cally, been abolished in Russia; and though men
had not infrequently been done to death in the
army and in prisons, the idea of formally, delibe-
rately, and publicly putting them to death outraged
Tolst6y's soul, and gave an incisive vigour to his
protest which aroused a responsive thrill from one
end of the country to the other. Specially moving
was his wish that if 'these inhuman deeds' were
not stopped '. . . they may put on me, as on those
twelve or twenty persons, a shroud and a cap, and
may push me too off a bench, so that by my own
weight I may tighten the well-soaped noose round
my old throat'.

His protest was against the taking of human
life whether by the government or by the revolu-
tionaries, but the sensation the article occasioned
was increased by the fact that the anti-govern-
mental parties found it a convenient instrument
wherewith to discredit the Tsardom.

The English Labour Party published it as a
penny pamphlet under the quite misleading title
of The Hanging Tsar, though its argument was no

INTRODUCTION xxv

more directed against the one side than the other, and
if any one man was indicated as the chief culprit it
was Stotypin and not the Tsar. Such attempts to
make party capital out of Tolstoy's moral appeal
largely defeated his purpose, and when the Revolu-
tion came those who seized the dictatorship slew
many tens of thousands where Stolypin had only
slain hundreds.

The Letter to a Hindu and the Gandhi Letters deal
with a matter which may become of great im-
portance in the future. Tolstoy not only thought
that wars and all violence between man and man
should cease, but he sought for practical means
towards furthering that end. One of the most
potent of these seemed to him to be passive resis-
tance which, if practised by a whole population
refusing to serve or in any way assist those who
rule over them, would render such rule impossible.
The chief example of such an attempt to get rid
of a foreign domination has been the Non-co-
operation movement Gandhi formulated ten years
after Tolstoy's death. That movement failed
partly because there were some among the Hindus
who still relied on violence, and partly because
the Mohammedan section of the population of
India were not at one with the Hindus. But the
strength the movement attained made it a serious
challenge to British rule in India at that time, and
indicated that under other circumstances Non-co-
operation may some day play a decisive role in
deciding the fate of a nation or a government.

As disapproval of war spreads among mankind,
more and more people will seek practical means
of preventing it, and even from that practical side
it would be unwise to leave what Tolstoy wrote on
the subject unconsidered.

Another practical movement of which Tolstoy

xxvi INTRODUCTION

was a main instigator was the migration of over
seven thousand Doukhobors from the Caucasus to
Canada in 1898. They had refused military service
and suffered severe persecution which caused
many deaths among them. An arrangement was
made with the Canadian government that they
might settle in Canada under an agreement
exempting them from any form of conscription or
military service. Their number has now, I believe,
more than doubled, and comparing their fate with
that of other inhabitants of the Caucasus during
the Great War and the subsequent Civil War in
Russia, there is no room to doubt that they have
benefited by the migration Tolstoy made possible
for them. Some among them have shown them-
selves fanatics, unreasonably suspicious of and
hostile to the Canadian (or any other) govern-
ment, and that renders their example less attractive
than it otherwise would be, but the main fact
stands out clearly. Several thousand men by
steadfastly withstanding conscription in their own
country secured exemption from military service
in the country to which they migrated, and thereby
escaped the dreadful suffering and disasters that
would have befallen them had they been willing
to be trained to slay their fellow men. If, as seems
probable, the objection to war many people feel
is to take practical form in the future, the Dou-
khobors and Gandhi's Non-co-operation move-
ment deserve to be kept in remembrance, adding
as they do a note of actuality and practicality to
what Tolst6y has written against war and the use
of physical violence.

In the Letter to a Japanese Tolstoy gives his un-
known correspondent a summary of what he con-
sidered to be 'the truth that has been preached by
all the great thinkers of the world', and applies

I VI RODUCTION xxvii

it to the question of military service. It was written
in the year that Tolstoy died, and when quoting
from the book For Every Day which he was then
engaged on compiling he made a slip which can
surprise no one who has read The Final Struggle
and realizes the very trying conditions under which
he was then living.

The Wisdom of Child* en is in a style Tolstoy only
tried experimentally and during the last months
of his life. He left it unfinished and unrevised, and
there are signs of the off-hand method of its com-
position. In it he broke fresh ground at the very
end of his life \\ hen living under conditions which
would have rendered literary work impossible to
almost anyone else.

Tolstoy is a foreign writer who died a quarter
of a century ago, of whose works two collected
editions were entrenched in our public libraries
and served as a hindrance to the recognition of his
calibre as a great thinker, as well as a novelist,
dramatist, autobiographer, and critic. It was
therefore a doubtful venture for any publisher to
undertake a new edition of his works — the success
of which would depend largely on whether
librarians and library committees could be brought
to realize that Tolstoy's works are valuable and
that those previous editions conceal their value.

For a long time no one was ready to undertake
so large and doubtful a venture, and everyone who
values Tolstoy's works and thinks that a readable
and reliable version of them is worth having owes
a debt of gratitude to Sir Humphrey Milford for
undertaking the publication of the Centenary
Edition, the translations of which (minus the
frontispieces and the special introductions) are
reproduced in the volumes of the World's Classics
series. While matters hung in the balance the

xxviii INTRODUCTION

publication of the Centenary Edition was en-
couraged by the generosity of more than twenty
distinguished English and American writers in con-
tributing Introductions for its volumes. They
nearly all did so gratuitously — a noteworthy testi-
mony to the esteem in which Tolstoy was held. The
American contingent, consisting of Jane Addams,
Hamlin Garland, Madeline Mason-Manheim, Pro-
fessors G. R. Noyes and W. Lyon Phelps, and the
Hon. Brand Whitlock, contributed particularly
helpful and suitable articles which well match
those provided by John Galsworthy, Harley Gran-
ville-Barker, Hugh Walpole, and the best of the
other English contributors.

The General Index prepared for that edition is
reprinted at the end of this volume, as it provides
readers with a classified list of Tolst6y's works.

In conclusion, let me acknowledge an obligation
to Mr. H. W. Garrod, who has drawn my attention
to the obscurity of a passage on p. 12 of Tolstdy on
Art and its Critics. I there said that Tolstoy was
'not speaking of the mass of the peasantry, but of
a not very common individual . . .'. That is mis-
leading, for the claim Tolst6y makes for the peasant
he makes for all men — namely that if they are
capable of sharing another's feelings, they can be
reached by the influence of art that is suitable for
them.

AYLMER MAUDE.

INTRODUCTION

By LEO TOLST6Y to his 'Recollections*

This and the 'Recollections' that follow are rough un-
corrected drafts Tolst6y never revised or prepared for the
press. They include what he gave to Birukov, to Lowen-
feld his German biographer, to Paul Boyer, and others
who wrote about him.

Some earlier autobiographical recollections, published
in 1878, have been given on pp. 10 to 15 of vol. i of the
Life of Tolstoy in this edition.

MY friend P. Biruk6v having undertaken to write
my biography for a French edition of my works
asked me to supply him with some biographical
information.

I wanted to do what he asked and began men-
tally to plan my biography. Involuntarily at firs*
I began to recall only the good in my life, merely
adding what was dark and bad in my conduct and
actions like shades in a picture. Reflecting more
seriously on the events of my life, however, I saw
that such a biography, though not absolutely false,
would be false by reason of its incorrect illumina-
tion— its presentation of what was good and its
silence as to, or smoothing over of, all that was bad.
But when I thought of writing the whole sincere
truth, not hiding anything that was bad in my life, I
was horrified at the impression such a biography
must produce. Just at that time I fell ill.1 And
during the involuntary idleness caused by my ill.
ness my thoughts constantly turned to recollections,
and those recollections were terrifying.

1 This was written in 1902, when Tolst6y was recovering
from a prolonged and very severe illness. — A. M.

459 »

2 INTRODUCTION TO 'RECOLLECTIONS'

I experienced profoundly what Pushkin speaks
of in his poem Remembrance :

'When for us mortals silent grows the noisy day

And on the hushed streets of the city

Descend the night's semi-translucent shadows grey

And sleep, reward of day-time labour, —

Then comes the time for me when in the silence deep,

All through the night's enforced leisure

Long dismal hours of sleepless torment slowly creep.

Remorse within my heart burns fiercely,

My mind is seething and my weary aching brain

With hosts of bitter thoughts is crowded,

And old disgraceful memories of shame, with pain

Unwind their heavy roll in silence.

As with disgust the record of my life I face,

I curse, chastise myself and shudder,

And bitter tears I shed, but never can efface

The lines of my unhappy story.'

The only change I would make would be in the
last line, where I would put 'disgraceful' instead of
^unhappy'.

Under the influence of this impression I wrote
as follows in my Diary.

'January 6th 1903.

'I am now experiencing the torments of hell: I
remember all the vileness of my former life and
those recollections poison my life and do not leave
rne. People often express regret that man's memory
will not survive death. But how fortunate that it
does not! What torture it would be if in a future
life I remembered all the bad things I have done
in this life and that now torment my conscience.
But if I am to remember the good I must also
remember all the bad. How fortunate it is that
memory disappears with death and only con-
sciousness remains — consciousness which presents
as it were the common resultant of the good and
the bad like a complex equation reduced to its

INTRODUCTION TO 'RECOLLECTIONS' 3
simplest form : x = a quantity which may be large
or small, positive or negative.

'Yes, the destruction of memories is a great
happiness. With memory it would be impossible
to live joyfully. But with the destruction of
memories we can enter into a life with clean white
slates on which we can write afresh, good and bad.

'It is true that not all my life was so terribly bad.
Only twenty years of it was that. And it is true that
during that period it was not the continuous evil
it appeared to me to be during my illness, and that
during that period, too, good impulses arose in
me though they did not long prevail but were soon
overwhelmed by passions. But still that effort of
reflection — especially during my illness — showed
me clearly that a biography written as biographies
usually are and passing in silence over all the
nastiness and guilt of my life, would be false, and
that if a biography is to be written the whole real
truth must be told. Only a biography of that kind
— however ashamed one may be to write it — can be
of any real benefit to its readers. Reflecting on it
in that way, regarding it, that is, from the stand-
point of good and evil, I saw that my whole long
life falls into four periods: that wonderful period
(especially in comparison with what followed) of
innocent, joyful, poetic childhood up to fourteen;
then the terrible twenty years that followed — a
period of coarse dissoluteness, employed in the
service of ambition, vanity, and above all of lust;
then the eighteen-year period from my marriage to
my spiritual birth — which from a worldly point
of view may be called moral, that is to say, that
during those eighteen years I lived a correct, honest,
family life, not practising any vices condemned by
social opinion, though all the interests of that period
were limited to egotistic cares for the family, the

4 INTRODUCTION TO 'RECOLLECTIONS'
increase of our property, the attainment of literary
success, and pleasures of all kinds : and finally the
fourth, twenty-year, period in which I am now living
and in which I hope to die, from the standpoint
of which I see the meaning of my past life, and
which I should not wish to alter in any respect
except for the effects of the evil habits to which I
grew accustomed in the former periods.

'I should like to write a perfectly truthful story
of those four periods if God grants me the life and
strength to do it. I think my biography written in
such a manner would be of more use to people, in
spite of its great defects, than all the artistic chatter
that fills the twelve volumes of my works1 and to
which people of our day attribute more importance
than they deserve.

'I now wish to do that. I will first tell of the joyful
period of my childhood, which attracts me parti-
cularly; then, however shameful it may be, I will
recount the terrible twenty years of the next period
without concealing anything. Then I will deal
with the third period, which is of less interest than
the others, and finally will tell of the last period of
my awakening to the truth which has given me the
highest good in life and a joyful tranquillity in
regard to my approaching death.

'In order not to repeat myself when describing
the period of childhood, I have re-read what I
wrote under that title, and felt regret that I wrote
it; so ill and (in a literary sense) insincerely is it
written. Nor could it be otherwise, for in the first
place my plan was to relate not my own story but

1 At that time, January 1903, those of Tolst6y's works
allowed in Russia were published in a collected edition of
twelve volumes. His works on religion, social problems, war,
and violence were generally suppressed by the Censor. —
A. M.

INTRODUCTION TO 'RECOLLECTIONS' 5

that of my childhood's friends, and as a result
there is an ill-proportioned mixture of the events
of their childhood and my own,1 and in the second
place I was far from being independent in my
forms of expression at the time it was written, but
was much under the influence of two writers —
Sterne (the Sentimental Journey) and Topffer2 (La
Bibliotheque de mon oncle).

'In particular the last two parts, Boyhood and
Touthy now displeased me. In them, besides an ill-
proportioned mixture of fact and fiction, there is
insincerity — a wish to present as good and im-
portant what I did not then consider good and
important, namely, my democratic tendency. I
hope that what I shall now write will be better,
and particularly that it will be of more use to other
people/

[ToLtoy never carried out the project of writing an autobio-
graphy, and all he left besides the recollections published in 1878
are the following highly characteristic fragments. — A. M.]

'RECOLLECTIONS'

My grandmother, Pelageya Nikolaevna (Tol-
stoy), was the daughter of the blind Prince Nicholas
Ivanovich Gorchakov, who had accumulated a
large fortune. As far as I can form an opinion of
her she was a woman of limited intellect and
education. Like all her set, she knew French better
than Russian (that was the extent of her educa-
tion), and was very much spoilt — first by her father,
then by her husband, and afterwards, within my
memory, by her son. Moreover, as the daughter of

1 Yet in some English editions Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth
is presented as a reliable autobiography. — A. M.

2 Rodolphc Topffer (1799-1846), Swiss novelist and
artist.— A. M.

6 'RECOLLECTIONS'

the senior member of the family she was highly
respected by all the Gorchakovs : Alexey Ivanovich,
the former Minister of War, Andrew Ivanovich, and
the sons of the freethinking Dmitri Petrovich —
Peter, Sergey, and Michael1 who served at the
siege of Sevastopol.

My grandfather (her husband) also exists in my
memory as a man of limited intelligence, very
gentle and merry, and not only generous but sense-
lessly prodigal, and above all very confiding. On
his estate in the Belevski district, Polyany (not
Yasnaya Polyana, but Polyany) , there was for a long
time a continuous round of feasting, theatrical
performances, balls, dinners, and outings, which,
with his fondness for playing lombard and whist
for high stakes (though he was a poor player) and
his readiness to give to everyone who asked either
for a loan or a free gift, and above all by becoming
entangled in affairs — ended by his wife's large
estate becoming so involved in debts that they had
nothing to live on, and my grandfather had to
apply for and accept the Governorship of Kazan —
a post easily obtainable with such connexions as his.

I have been told that he never accepted bribes
(except from the spirit-monopolist) though it was
then the generally accepted practice to do so, and
that he was angry when any were offered him. But
I have been told that my grandmother accepted
contributions without her husband's knowledge.

In Kazan my grandmother married off her
younger daughter, Pelag^ya, to Yushkov. Her elder
daughter, Alexandra, had already been married in
Petersburg to Count Osten-Saken.

After the death of her husband at Kazan and
my father's marriage, my grandmother settled with

1 He was commander-in-chief of the Russian forces in the
Crimea during the siege of Sevastopol. — A. M.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 7

my father at Yasnaya Polyana, where I well remem-
ber her as an old woman.

My grandmother loved my father and us, her
grandsons, amusing herself with us. She loved my
aunts but I fancy she did not love my mother
much, considering her to be not good enough for
my father and feeling jealous of his affection for
her. With the servants she could not be exacting
for everyone knew that she was the chief person
in the house and sought to please her; but with
her maid Gash a she gave way to caprice and tor-
mented her, calling her: 'You . . . my dear,'1
expecting of her things that she had not asked for,
and tormenting her in all sorts of ways. And
curiously enough Gasha (Agafya Mikhaylovna),2
whom I knew well, was infected by my grand-
mother's capriciousness, and with the girl in
attendance on her and with her cat, and in general
with all with whom she could be exacting, she was
as capricious as my grandmother was with her.

My earliest recollections of my grandmother,
before we moved to Moscow and lived there, are
three vivid ones. The first is the way in which she
washed, making, with some special soap, wonderful
bubbles on her hands which it seemed to me she
alone could produce. We were taken specially to
see her when she washed — probably our delight
and astonishment at her soap-bubbles amused her.
I remember her white cap, her dressing jacket, her
white old hands, and the immense bubbles that rose
on them, and her white face with its satisfied smile.

The second is of how she was drawn by my

1 This sounded ironical, for a mistress in the ordinary
course of things would never say 'You* but always 'Thou* to
a servant. — A. M.

2 Agafya Mikhaylovna lived to be quite an old woman at
Yisnaya Polyana.— A. M.

8 'RECOLLECTIONS'

father's footmen, without a horse, in a well-sprung
yellow cabriolet (in which we used to go driving
with our tutor, Fedor Ivanovich) to the Little
Forest to gather nuts, of which there were a great
many that year. I remember the thick, close-
growing hazel-bushes into the midst of which
Petriishka and Matyusha (the footmen) drew the
yellow cabriolet in which my grandmother was
seated, and how they bent down to her the boughs
with clusters of ripe nuts, some of which were
already falling out of their husks. I remember how
grandmother herself plucked them and put them
into a bag, and how we children bent down some
branches, as did Fedor Ivanovich, surprising us by
his strength in bending down thick ones. We
gathered the nuts from all sides and when Fedor
Ivanovich let go of them the bushes, slowly dis-
entangling themselves, resumed their proper shape,
and still others remained that we had overlooked.
I remember how hot it was in the glades, how
pleasant was the coolness in the shade, and I remem-
ber the pungent scent of the nut-leaves and how
the maids who were with us cracked and ate the
nuts, and how we ourselves unceasingly chewed
the fresh, full, white kernels.

We filled our pockets and skirts and the cabriolet,
and grandmother took us in and praised us. How
we returned home and what followed I do not at
all remember. I only remember that grandmamma,
the nut-glade, the pungent scent of the leaves of
the nut-trees, the footmen, the yellow cabriolet,
and the sun, all merged into one joyful impression.
It seemed to me that as the soap-bubbles could
only exist with grandmamma, so the thicket, the
nuts, the sun, and the other things, could only be
where grandmamma was, in the yellow cabriolet
drawn by Petrushka and Matyusha.

•RECOLLECTIONS' 9

But the strongest recollection I have of my
grandmother is of a night passed in her bedroom
with Lev Stepanich. He was a blind story-teller
(already an old man when I knew him) — a relic
of the old-time bdrstvo1 of my grandfather. He was
a serf who had been bought simply that he might
tell stories which, with the remarkable memory
characteristic of the blind, he could repeat word
for word after having had them read to him once
or twice.

He lived somewhere in the house and was not
seen all day. But in the evening he would come
upstairs to grandmamma's bedroom (her bedroom
was a low, little room which one had to enter by
two steps) and sit down on a low window-sill where
supper was brought him from the master's table.
There he would await my grandmother, who had
no need to hesitate about undressing in the presence
of a blind man. On that day, when it was my turn
to spend the night with grandmamma, the blind
Lev Stepanich, in a long, dark-blue coat with puffs
at the shoulders, was already sitting on the window-
sill eating his supper. I do not remember where
my grandmother undressed, whether in that room
or another, or how they put me to bed. I only
remember the moment when the candle was ex-
tinguished and just a small lamp remained burning
before the gilt icons. Grandmamma, that same
wonderful grandmamma who produced those
extraordinary soap-bubbles, all white — in white, on
white, and covered with white — a white night-cap
on her head, lay raised high on pillows, and from
the window-sill came the even, tranquil voice of

1 Bdrstvo, though a characteristic and almost indispensable
word in dealing with the old order of things in Russia, is
difficult to translate. It is something like 'seigniorality',
'grandeur', or 'lordliness*. — A. M.

io 'RECOLLECTIONS'

Lev Stepanich: 'Do you wish me to continue?'
'Yes, continue.' 'Dear sister, said she — ' Lev
Stepanich's quiet, smooth, elderly voice went on,
'tell us one of those interesting stories which you
can tell so well. Willingly, replied Sheherazade,
I will tell the remarkable story of Prince Camaral-
zaman, if your ruler will express his consent to
that. Having received the Sultan's consent,
Sheherazade began as follows: A certain ruling
King had an only son' . . . and Lev Stepanich
began the story of Camaralzaman, evidently word
for word as it was in the book. I neither listened nor
understood, so absorbed was I by the mysterious
appearance of my white grandmother, her waver-
ing shadow on the wall, and the old man with his
white, sightless eyes, whom I did not now see but
whom I remembered sitting on the window-sill,
slowly uttering some strange, and as it seemed to
me solemn, words, which sounded monotonous in
the dim room, lit only by the flickering light of
the little lamp. Probably I fell asleep at once, for
I remember nothing more, but in the morning was
again surprised and delighted by the soap-bubbles
grandmamma made on her hands while washing.

Of his maternal grandfather Tolstoy tells us :

Of my grandfather I know that having attained
the high position of General en Chef, he lost it sud-
denly by refusing to marry Potemkin's niece and
mistress, Varvara Engelhardt. To Potemkin's sug-
gestion that he should do so, he replied: 'What
makes him think I would marry his strumpet?'

Having married a Princess Catherine Dmf-
trievna Trubetskoy he settled on the estate of
Yasnaya Polyana inherited from her father, Sergey
Fedorovich.

The Princess soon died, leaving my grandfather

'RECOLLECTIONS' n

an only daughter, Marya. With that much-loved
daughter and her French girl-companion rny
grandfather lived till his death, about the year
1821. He was regarded as a very exacting master
but I never heard any instance of his being cruel
or inflicting the severe punishments common in
those days. I believe such things did happen on
his estate, but the enthusiastic respect for his im-
portance and cleverness was so great among the
household and agricultural serfs whom I have often
questioned about him, that though I have heard
my father condemned, I have heard only praise of
my grandfather's intelligence, capacity for manage-
ment, and interest both in the affairs of the serfs
on the land and more particularly of those of his
great number of domestic serfs. He built admirable
accommodation for the latter and was careful to
see that they always had enough to eat and were
well clothed and had recreation. On holidays he
arranged amusements for them — swings and village
dances.

Like all wise landowners of that day he was
extremely concerned as to the well-being of his
agricultural serfs, who flourished the more because
grandfather's high rank inspired respect among the
local police and enabled the serfs to escape the
exactions of the authorities.

He probably had an acute appreciation of
beauty, for all his buildings were not only well
built and convenient but exceedingly elegant. So,
too, was the park he laid out in front of the house.
Probably he was also very fond of music, for he
kept a good though small orchestra of his own,
merely for himself and my mother. I remember
an immense elm which stood where the lime avenues
converged. Round its trunk — which was so large
that it took three men to span it — were placed

1 2 'RECOLLECTIONS'

benches and stands for the musicians. Of a morn-
ing my grandfather would walk in the avenue and
listen to the music. He could not endure hunting,
but was fond of flowers and the plants in his
greenhouses.

A strange fate brought him again in touch with
that same Varvdra Engelhardt for refusing to
marry whom his army career had suffered. She
had married Prince Serge* y Fedorovich Golftsin,
who in consequence had received all sorts of
dignities, Orders, and rewards. My grandfather
came so closely in touch with Sergey Fedorovich
and his family, and consequently with Varvara
also, that my mother in childhood was engaged
to one of Golf tsin's ten sons, and the two old princes
exchanged family portraits (that is, copies painted
of course by their own serfs). All those portraits
of the Golitsins are now in our house, including
Sergey Fedorovich wearing the ribbon of the Order
of Saint Andrew, and the stout, red-haired Varvara
Vasllevna as a Lady of the Order of Knighthood.
My mother's engagement was, however, not destined
to be fulfilled, for her fiance* died of high fever
before the marriage.

My mother I do not at all remember. I was a
year-and-a-half old when she died, and by some
strange chance no portrait of her has been pre-
served, so that as an actual physical being I cannot
picture her to myself. In a way I am glad of this,
for my conception of her is thus purely spiritual
and all I know about her is beautiful. I think this
has come about not merely because all who told
me of her tried to say only what was good, but
because that good was actually in her.

My mother was not beautiful, but was very well
educated for her time. Besides Russian (which,

•RECOLLECTIONS' 13

contrary to the prevailing custom, she wrote cor-
rectly) she knew four languages: French, German,
English, and Italian, and she must have had a fine
feeling for art. She played the piano well, and
women of her own age have told me that she was
very clever at telling interesting stories, inventing
them as she went along. But her most precious
quality, according to her servants, was that, though
quick tempered, she was self-restrained. 'She would
go quite red in the face and even begin to cry,' her
maid told me, 'but would never say a rude word —
she did not even know any.'

I have some letters of hers to my father and
aunts, and her diary of my eldest brother Niko-
lenka's behaviour. He was six years old when she
died and was, I think, more like her than the rest
of us. They both had a characteristic very dear to
me — at least from her letters I assume my mother
had it, and I knew it in my brother. This was
an indifference to what others thought about
them, and a modesty which went to the length of
trying to hide their mental, educational, and moral
superiority. They seemed to be almost ashamed of
those superiorities.

In my brother — of whom Turgenev very truly
said that he lacked the defects necessary to become
a great writer — I knew that last trait very well.

I remember how a very stupid and bad man,
an adjutant to the Governor, who was hunting
with my brother, ridiculed him in my presence,
and how my brother, glancing at me, smiled good-
humouredly, evidently finding pleasure in it.

I notice the same trait in my mother's letters.
She was evidently morally superior to my father
and his family, except perhaps Tatiana Alexan-
drovna firgolski, with whom I lived half my life and
who was a woman of remarkable moral qualities.

14 'RECOLLECTIONS'

Besides that they both had another trait which
I think accounts for their indifference to people's
disapproval. It was that they never blamed any-
one. I knew that certainly of my brother, with
whom I spent half my life. His most pronouncedly
negative relation to any man was expressed by
a delicate, good-natured humour and a similar
smile. I notice the same in my mother's letters
and have heard it spoken of by those who knew her.

A third trait which distinguished my mother
from others of her circle was the sincerity and
simplicity of her letters. In those days exaggerated
expressions were exceedingly common. 'Incom-
parable', 'adored', 'joy of my life', 'inestimable',
and the like, were very customary epithets among
intimates, and the more high-flown they were the
less were they sincere.

That trait showed itself also in my father's letters,
though not in any marked degree. He writes : ' Ma
bien douce amie, je ne pense qu'au bonheur d'etre auprcs
de toi.'1 That was hardly quite sincere. But her
mode of address was always the same: 'Mon ban
ami,'2 and in one of her letters she says plainly:
'Le ttmps me par ait long sans toi, quoiqu'd dire vrai, nous
ne jouissons pas beaucoup de la societe quand tu es id,'3
and she always signed herself in the same way:
'Tfl devouee Marie?*

My mother passed her childhood partly in
Moscow and partly in the country with that very
able, proud, and gifted man, my grandfather
Volk6nski. I have been told that she was very
fond of me, and called me: 'mon petit Benjamin9.

1 My very sweet friend, I think only of the happiness of
being with you.

2 My good friend.

3 The time seems long without you, though to tell the truth
we do not enjoy much of your company when you are here.

4 Your devoted Marie.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 1 5

I think that her love for her deceased betrothed,
just because the engagement ended in his death,
was that poetic love which girls experience only
once. Her marriage with my father was arranged
by her relatives and his. She was wealthy, no
longer in her first youth, and an orphan, and my
father was a gay, brilliant young man of good
family and connexions, but whose fortune had been
utterly ruined by his father Ilya Tolstoy — ruined
to such a degree that my father refused even to take
over the inheritance. I think that my mother was
not in love with my father, but loved him as a
husband and chiefly as the father of her children.
Her real loves, as I understand it, were three or four :
the love of her deceased fiance; then a passionate
friendship for her French companion Mademoiselle
Henissienne, of which I heard from my aunts, and
which, it seems, ended in disillusion. Mademoiselle
Henissienne married my mother's cousin, Prince
Michael Alexandrovich Volkonski, grandfather of
the present Volkonski, the writer.

Her third and perhaps most passionate love was
for my eldest brother Koko [Nicholas], a diary of
whose conduct she kept in Russian, writing down
what he did and reading it to him. That diary
portrays her passionate wish to do everything to
educate Koko in the best possible way, and at the
same time how very obscure a perception she had
of what such an education should be. She reproves
him, for instance, for being too sensitive, and crying
over the sufferings of animals when he witnessed
them. A man, in her view, had to be firm. Another
defect she tried to correct in him was that he was
absent-minded and said lje vous remercie' to grand-
mamma instead of saying 'Bonsoir* or 'Bonjour*.

My aunts told me, I hope correctly, that a fourth
strong feeling was her love for me, replacing her

1 6 'RECOLLECTIONS'

love for Koko, who from the time of my birth
became detached from her and was handed over
into masculine hands. She had to love someone,
and the one love replaced the other.

Such was my mother as her portrait exists in my
imagination.

She appeared to me a creature so elevated, pure,
and spiritual, that often in the middle period of
my life when I was struggling with overwhelming
temptations, I prayed to her spirit, begging her
to aid me, and those prayers always helped me
a great deal.

Altogether I conclude from letters and reports
that my mother's life in my father's family was
a very good and happy one.

That family consisted of his mother, her daugh-
ters, one of whom was Countess Alexandra 111 nishna
Osten-Saken, and her ward Pashenka; another
'aunt' as we called her, though she was really a
much more distant relation, Tatiana Alexandrovna
£rgolski, who had been brought up in my grand-
father's house and lived the remainder of her life
with us, my father, and our tutor Fedor Ivanovich
Ressel, who is described correctly enough in Child-
hood. There were five of us children: Nicholas,
Sergey, Dmitri, myself, and my sister Mashenka
(Marya), in consequence of whose birth my mother
died. My mother's short married life — hardly more
than nine years — was a good and happy one. It
was a very full one and adorned by her love of all
who lived with her and by everyone's love of her.
Judging by her letters, she lived at that time in
great isolation. Hardly anyone except our close
acquaintances, the Ogarevs, and relatives casually
travelling along the high road and who turned
aside to visit us, ever came to Yasnaya Polyana.
My mother's life was spent in care for her chil-

•RECOLLECTIONS' 17

dren, in managing the household, in walks, reading
novels aloud to my grandmother in the evening,
in serious reading such as Rousseau's £mile, and
in discussing what had been read, in playing the
piano, and in teaching Italian to one of my aunts.
In all families there are periods when they all
live peacefully and sickness and death are as yet
absent. Such a period, I think, was experienced by
my family till my mother 's death. No one died,
no one was seriously ill, and my father's disorgan-
ized affairs improved. Everyone was well, cheerful,
and friendly. My father amused us all by his stories
and jests. I do not remember that time. By the
time my recollections begin my mother's death had
already put its seal on the life of our family.

I have described all this from hearsay and letters.
Now I will tell of what I myself experienced and
remember. I will not mention confused, infantile,
obscure recollections in which I cannot distinguish
reality from dreams, but will begin with what I
clearly remember — the place and the people that
surrounded me from my first years. The first place
among those people is naturally occupied by my
father — not by his influence on me, but by my
feeling for him.

In his early years he had been left an only son.
His younger brother Ilenka, who had injured his
spine, became hunchbacked, and died in child-
hood. In 1812* my father was seventeen years old,
and in spite of his parents' remonstrances, fears, and
horror, entered the military service. At that time
Prince Alexe*y Ivanovich Gorchakov, a near rela-
tion of my grandmother's (who was by birth a
Princess Gorchak6v) was Minister of War. His
brother, Andrew Ivanovich, was a general com-
1 When Napoleon invaded Russia. — A. M.

1 8 'RECOLLECTIONS'

manding part of the active army, and my father
was appointed adjutant to him. He served through
the campaign of 1813-14, and in 1814, being
sent somewhere in France with dispatches, was
taken prisoner by the French and only liberated
when our army entered Paris.

At the age of twenty my father was no longer an
innocent youngster, for at the age of sixteen, before
he entered the army, his parents had arranged a
liaison between him and a serf-girl — such con-
nexions being then considered desirable for the
health of young men. That union resulted in the
birth of a son, Mishenka, who became a postilion
and who, while my father was alive, lived steadily,
but afterwards went to pieces and often when we
brothers were grown up used to come to us begging
for help. I remember the strange feeling of per-
plexity I experienced when this brother of mine,
who was very much like my father (more so than
any of us) , having fallen into destitution, was grateful
for the ten or fifteen rubles we would give him.

After the war was over my father, disenchanted
with army service — as is apparent from his letters —
left it and returned to Kazan, where my grandfather
(already completely ruined) was Governor, and
where my father's sister, Pelageya Ilinishna, who
was married to Yushkov, also lived. My grand-
father died in Kazan soon after this, leaving on my
father's hands an estate encumbered with debts
which exceeded its value, and an old mother
accustomed to luxury, as well as a sister and another
relative. His marriage with my mother was arranged
at that time, and he moved to Yasnaya Poly an a,
where after nine years he became a widower.

Returning to what I knew of my father and how
I picture his life to myself: he was of medium

'RECOLLECTIONS' 19

height, well built, an active, sanguine man with a
pleasant face, but with eyes that were always sad.
His occupations were farming and lawsuits, chiefly
the latter. Everybody at that time had many
lawsuits, but my father, I think, had particularly
many, as he had to disentangle my grandfather's
affairs. These lawsuits frequently obliged him to
leave home, and besides that he used often to go
off hunting and shooting. His chief companions
when hunting were his friends, a rich old bachelor
Kireevsky, Yazykov, Glebov, and Islenev. My
father shared a characteristic common among
landed proprietors of having certain favourites
among his household serfs. His chief favourites
were two brothers, Petriishka and Matyusha, both
handsome, dexterous fellows and clever huntsmen.
When at home my father read a good deal, besides
occupying himself with farming and with his
children. He collected a library consisting of the
French classics of that period, historical works, and
works on natural history — Buffon and Cuvier. My
aunt told me that my father made it a rule not to
buy new books until he had read the old ones, but
though he read a great deal it is difficult to believe
that he got through all those Histoires des Croisades
and des Papcs which he acquired for his library.

As far as I can judge he was not fond of science,
but was on the ordinary educational level of people
of his day. Like most of the men of Alexander I's
early years and of the campaigns of 1813, 1814, and
1815, he was not what is now called a Liberal, but
simply from a feeling of self-respect did not con-
sider it possible to serve either during Alexander's
later reactionary period or under Nicholas I. And
not only he but all his friends similarly held them-
selves aloof from government service and were
rather Frondeurs in regard to Nicholas I's rule.

20 'RECOLLECTIONS'

Throughout my childhood and even my youth
our family were neither acquainted with nor had
close intercourse with a single official. Of course
I did not understand the significance of this in
my childhood. All I then understood was that my
father never humbled himself before anyone and
never changed his debonair, gay, and often ironical
tone. And this sense of personal dignity which I
noticed in him increased my love for and my
delight in him.

I remember him in his study when we went to
say 'good night', or sometimes simply to play.
There he sat on the leather divan smoking a pipe
and petted us, and sometimes to our intense joy
let us climb onto the back of the divan while he
continued to read or talked to the clerk standing
at the door, or to S. I. Yazykov, my godfather, who
often stayed with us. I remember how he came
downstairs and drew pictures for us which seemed
to us the height of perfection. I remember, too,
how he once made me read him Pushkin's poems,
which had pleased me and which I had learnt by
heart: 'To the Sea', 'Farewell, free element!', and
'To Napoleon'—

The wondrous fate has been fulfilled,
The great man is no more.

— and so on. He was evidently struck by the pathos
with which I spoke those verses, and having
listened to me, exchanged significant looks with
Yazykov, who was present. I understood that he
saw something good in that reading of mine and
I was very happy about it.

I remember his merry jests and stories at dinner
and supper, and how grandmamma and my aunts
and we children laughed, listening to him. I also
remember his journeys to town, and how wonder-

'RECOLLECTIONS' a i

fully handsome he looked when he wore his trock-
coat and narrow trousers. But my most vivid
recollections of him are in connexion with hunting
and dogs. I remember his setting off for the hunt
... I remember our going to walk with him and
how the young borzois following him grew excited
as the high grass whipped them and tickled their
stomachs, and how they flew around with their
tails bent over their backs, and how he admired
them. I remember how on September ist, the
hunting holiday, we all set out in a hneyka1 to a
wood where a fox had been brought, and how
the hounds chased it and how it was caught some-
where— though we did not see it — by the borzois.
I also remember with particular clearness the
taking of a wolf quite near home, and how we all
went out on foot to see it. The big grey wolf was
brought in a cart, trussed up and with his legs
bound. He lay there quietly but glancing askance
at those who approached him. Having reached a
place behind the garden, they took the wolf out
of the cart and held him down to the ground with
pitchforks while they unbound his legs. He began
to struggle and jerk and gnaw angrily at the cord.
At last they loosed the cord from behind and
someone shouted: 'Let him go!' The pitchforks
were lifted and the wolf got up. He stood still for
some ten seconds, but they shouted at him and
let loose the dogs; and wolf, dogs, horsemen, and
hunters flew downhill across the field. And the
wolf got away. I remember my father scolding
and gesticulating angrily when he returned home.2

1 A four-wheeled vehicle rather like an Irish jaunting car,
but longer, and seating more people. — A. M.

2 Here evidently is part of the material from which the
famous hunting scenes in War and Peace (Book VII, Chs. 4 to
6) were produced. — A. M.

22 'RECOLLECTIONS'

But I liked my father best when he sat on the
divan with grandmother and helped her lay out
her cards for patience. He was always polite and
affable with everyone, but for grandmother he had
a special kind of amiable humility. Grandmother,
with her long chin, and a cap with frills and a bow
on her head, would sit on the divan and lay out
the cards, occasionally taking a pinch of snuff from
her gold snuff-box.

In an arm-chair beside the divan would sit the
Tula gunsmith, Petrovna, in her short, cartridge-
studded jacket. She would be spinning, sometimes
knocking the clew against the wall which was
already indented by such knocks. This Petrovna
was a tradeswoman to whom my grandmother
had taken a fancy, and she often stayed with us
and always sat near the divan beside grandmamma.
My aunts would be sitting in arm-chairs, one of
them reading aloud. On another arm-chair, where
she had made a place for herself, would be Milka,
my father's favourite dog, high-spirited and pie-
bald, with beautiful black eyes. We would come
in to say good night and would sometimes stay
a while.

[A paragraph beginning on p. 20 of vol. i of the
Life of Tolstoy and continuing at the top of p. 2 1
should follow on here.]

I loved my father very much, but only realized
how strong that love was when he died.

[Tolstoy's earliest recollections (of being swaddled
and bathed) are given on pp. 10 to 13 of the first
volume of the Life of Tolstoy in this edition, and
are therefore not repeated here. He goes on to say :]

After my recollections of being swaddled and
tubbed I have no others up to the age of four or
five, or very few of them, and not one of them

'RECOLLECTIONS' 23

relates to life out of doors. Up to the age of five
nature did not exist for me. All that I remember
happened in bed or in a room. Neither grass, nor
leaves, nor sky, nor sun existed for me. It cannot
be that no one gave me flowers and leaves to play
with, or that I did not see the grass and was not
sheltered from the sun, but up to the age of five
or six I have no recollection of what is called
'nature'. Probably it is necessary to be separate
from it in order to see it, and I was then part of
nature.

It is strange and frightening to realize that from
my birth and up to the age of three — when I was
being fed at the breast, when I was weaned, when
I first began to crawl about, to walk, and to speak —
I cannot find a single recollection except those
two, however much I search my memory. \Vhen
did I begin to be? When did I begin to live? And
why is it pleasant to imagine myself as I then was,
but frightening — as it used to be to me and as it
still is to many people — to imagine entering a
similar condition at death, where there will be no
recollections expressible in words? Was I not alive
when I was learning to look, to hear, to under-
stand, to speak, to take the breast and kiss it, and
to laugh and delight my mother? I was alive and
lived blissfully! Did I not then become possessed
of everything by which I now live? Did I not then
acquire so much and so rapidly that in all the rest
of my life I have not acquired a one-hundredth
part as much? From a five-year-old boy to me is
only a step, from a new-born babe to a five-year-
old boy there is an immense distance, from an
embryo to a new-born babe there is an enormous
chasm, while between non-existence and an embryo
there is not merely a chasm but incomprehensi-
bility. Not only are space and time and cause

24 'RECOLLECTIONS'

forms of thought, and the essence of life is beyond
those forms, but our whole life is a greater and
greater subjection of ourselves to those forms and
then again a liberation from them.

[After this should follow the paragraph on p. 1 1
of vol. i of the Life of Tolstoy beginning with the
words: 'My next recollections belong to the time
when I was five or six5, and continuing to 'a
serious matter' at the end of the quotation on
p. 13. Tolstoy goes on to tell us that:]

The third person after my father and mother
who had the most important influence on my life
was * Auntie', as we called Tatiana Alexandrovna
firgolski. She was a very distant relation of my
grandmother's on the Gorchakov side. She and
her sister Lisa, who afterwards married Count
Peter Ivanovich Tolst6y, were left as poor unpro-
tected little orphans when their parents died. They
had some brothers whom relations managed some-
how to place. But the imperious and important
Tatiana Semenovna Skuratov, famous in her circle
in the Chern district, and my grandmother, decided
to take the girls to educate. They put folded pieces
of paper bearing their names before an icon,
prayed, and drew lots. Lisa fell to Tatiana
Semenovna and the dark one to grandmamma.
Tanichka, as we called her, was of the same age as
my father, being born in 1 795. She was educated
on an exact equality with my aunts and was
tenderly loved by us all, as could not be otherwise
with her firm, energetic, and yet self-sacrificing
character. Her character is well shown by an
occurrence about which she told us, showing the
large scar, almost the size of one's palm, left by
the burn on her forearm. They children were
reading the story of Mucius Scaevola, and argued

'RECOLLECTIONS' 25

that no one of them could do such a thing. 'I will
do it,' said Tanichka. 'You won't!' said Yazykov,
my godfather, and characteristically enough heated
a ruler over the candle till it bent and smoked.
'There, lay that on your arm!' said he. Tanichka
stretched out her bare arm (all girls wore short
sleeves then) and Yazykov pressed the charred
ruler against it. She frowned but did not withdraw
her arm, and only groaned when the ruler was
pulled away, taking the skin with it. When the
grown-ups saw her wound and asked her how it
had happened, she said she had done it herself,
wishing to experience the same thing as Mucius
Scaevola.1

She was like that in everything, determined yet
self-sacrificing.

She must have been very attractive with her
enormous plait of crisp black curly hair, her jet-
black eyes and vivacious energetic expression.
V. I. Yushov, Pelageya Itynichna's husband, a
great lady-killer, when he was already old used to
say of her (with the feeling lovers exhibit when
speaking of former objects of their love) — 'Toinette,
oh, elle etait charmante!*

When I first remember her she was already over
forty and I never thought of whether she was
beautiful or not. I simply loved her, loved her
eyes, her smile, and her dusky broad little hand
with its energetic cross- vein.

Probably she loved my father and he loved her,
but she did not marry him when they were young
because she thought he had better marry my
wealthy mother, and she did not marry him subse-
quently because she did not wish to spoil her pure

1 Readers will remember the use Tolst6y makes of this
recollection in Chapter I of Book IV of War and Peace, where
S6nya shows the scar on her arm.— A. M.

26 'RECOLLECTIONS'

poetic relations with him and with us. Among her
papers in a small beaded portfolio lies the following
note, written in 1836, six years after the death of
my mother:

Ii6 aout 1836. Nicholas m'a fait aujourcThui une
Strange proposition — celle de Vtpouser — de servir de mere
a ses enfants et de ne jamais tes quitter. J'ai refuse la
premiere proposition, fai promts de remplir Vautre tout
que je vivrai.'1

So she wrote, but never did she speak of that to
us or to anyone. After my father's death she ful-
filled his second request. We had two aunts and
a grandmother who all had more claim on us than
Tatiana Alexandrovna, whom we called 'auntie'
only by habit, for our kinship was so distant that
I could never remember what it was, but she held
the first place in our upbringing by right of love
to us — like Buddha in the story of the wounded
swan — and we felt that.

I had fits of passionately tender love for her.
I remember how once when I was about five, I
squeezed in behind her on the divan in the drawing-
room, and how, caressing me, she touched my
hand. I caught her hand and began to kiss it and
to cry from tender love of her.

She had been educated like the daughter of a
wealthy family and spoke and wrote French better
than Russian. She played the piano admirably,
but had not touched it for some thirty years. She
resumed playing only when I was grown up and
was learning to play; and sometimes, when playing
duets together, she surprised me by the correctness
and elegance of her execution.

1 1 6th August 1836. Nicholas has to-day made me a strange
proposal — that I should marry him, to act as mother to his
children and never leave them. I have refused the first pro-
posal, but have promised to fulfil the other as long as I live.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 27

To her servants she was kind, never spoke to
them angrily and could not endure the idea of
beating or whipping; but she considered that the
serfs were serfs, and behaved to them as a mistress.
But in spite of that they regarded her as different
from other people, and everybody loved her. When
she died and was being borne through the village,
peasants came out of all the huts and ordered
requiems for her.1 Her chief characteristic was
love, but — much as I could wish that it had not
been so — love of one man, my father. Only from
that centre did her love radiate to everyone. We
felt that she loved us for his sake. Through him
she loved everyone, for her whole life was made up
of love.

Though she had the greatest right to us by her
love, our own aunts, especially Pelageya Ilynichna
when she took us away to Kazan, had a prior legal
right and Tatiana Alexandrovna submitted to it,
but her love did not weaken because of it. She
lived with her sister, Countess E. A. Tolstoy, but
in spirit she lived with us, and she returned to us
as soon as possible. That she lived her last years
(about twenty) with me at Yasnaya Polyana \\as
a great happiness for me. But how unable we
were to value our happiness, for true happiness
is always quiet and unnoticed! I valued it, but
far from sufficiently. She was fond of keeping
sweets, figs, gingerbreads, and dates, in various
jars in her room, giving them me as a special treat.
I cannot forget, or remember without a cruel pang
of remorse, that I repeatedly refused her the money
she wanted for such things and how, with a sad

1 It was customary to get the priests to say prayers for the
dead for a certain fee, but it was unusual for peasants to have
such prayers said for a lady, especially for one who was not
even the owner of the estate. — A. M.

28 •RECOLLECTIONS'

sigh, she remained silent. It is true that I was myself
in need of money, but I cannot now remember
without horror that I refused her.

When I was already married and she had begun
to grow feeble, one day when we were in her
room, having awaited her opportunity, she said
to us — turning away (I saw that she was ready
to cry) — 'Look here, mes chers amis, my room is
a good one and you will want it. If I die in it,'
and her voice trembled, 'the recollection will be
unpleasant for you, so move me somewhere else
that I may not die here.' Such she always was
from my earliest childhood, when I did not yet
understand her.

I have said that Auntie Tatiana Alexandrovna
had a great influence on my life. That influence
consisted first of all in teaching me from childhood
the spiritual delight of love. She did not teach me
that by words, but by her whole being she filled
me with love.

I saw and felt how she enjoyed loving, and I
understood the joy of love. That was the first
thing. And the second was that she taught me the
charm of an unhurried, tranquil life.

[Of the half-crazy saints who wandered from one
holy place to another and were then common in
Russia, and some of whom used to visit at the
Tolst6ys' house, he writes:]

Grisha [who figures in Childhood] was an in-
vented character. Many of these yurodivy of various
kinds used to come to our house and I was accus-
tomed to regard them with profound respect, for
which I am deeply grateful to those who brought
me up. If there were some among them who were
insincere or had periods of weakness and insincerity
in their lives, the aim of their life, though practi-

'RECOLLECTIONS' 29

cally absurd, was so lofty that I am glad I learned
unconsciously in childhood to understand the
height of their achievement. They practised what
Marcus Aurelius speaks of when he says : 'There is
nothing higher than to endure contempt for a good
life.' The temptation to win human praise that
mingles with good actions is so harmful and so
unavoidable that one must sympathize with efforts
to avoid praise and even to evoke contempt. Such
a yurodivy was Marya Gcrasimovna, my sister's god-
mother, and the semi-idiot Evdokimushka, and
some others who used to come to our house.

And we children overheard the prayer not of
a yurodivy but of a fool, the gardener's assistant
Akfm, who was praying in the large room between
the two hothouses that was used in summer, and
who really amazed and touched me by his prayer,
in which he spoke to God as to a living person:
'You are my healer. You are my dispenser,'1 said
he with impressive conviction. And then he sang
a verse about the Day of Judgement and how God
would separate the just from the unjust and close
the eyes of sinners with yellow sand.

Besides my brothers and sister we had with us
from the time I was five Duncchka Temyashov,
a girl of my own age, and I must tell who she was
and how she happened to come among us. One
of the visitors I remember in childhood was the
husband of my aunt Yushkov, whose appearance
with his black moustache, whiskers, and spectacles,
surprised us children, and another was my godfather
S. I. Yazykov, smelling of tobacco and remarkably

1 LJka, a doctor or healer, and aptfka, an apothecary or
dispenser, are so similar in sound and so akin in suggestion
that having uttered the one word Akim could automatically
follow it up with the other. — A. M.

30 'RECOLLECTIONS'

ugly with loose skin on his large face which he
constantly twitched into the strangest grimaces. Be-
sides these and two neighbours, Ogarev and Islenev,
there was on the Gorchakov side of the family a
distant relation who came to see us. This was
the wealthy bachelor Temyash6v, who called my
father 'brother' and cherished a kind of ecstatic
liking for him. He lived forty versts from Yasnaya
Polyana at the village of Pirogova, and brought
from there on one occasion sucking-pigs with tails
twisted into rings, which were spread out on a large
dish in the servants' quarters. Temyash6v, Piro-
gova, and the sucking-pigs became merged into
one in my imagination.

Besides that, Temyashov was memorable for us
children by the fact that he played on the piano in
the large living-room a dance-tune (the only one
he could play) and made us dance to it. When we
asked him what dance it was, he said that one could
dance all dances to that tune. And we enjoyed
availing ourselves of such an opportunity.

It was a winter's evening, tea had been drunk and
we were soon to be taken up to bed. I could hardly
keep my eyes open, when suddenly from the ser-
vants' quarters, through the large open door into
the drawing-room where we were all sitting in
semi-darkness with only two candles burning, a
man in soft boots entered with rapid strides and
reaching the middle of the room fell on his knees.
The lighted pipe he held in his hand struck the
floor with its long stem and sparks flew about,
lighting up the face of the kneeling man. It was
Temyash6v. He said something to my father be-
fore whom he was kneeling. I do not remember
what, and did not even hear. I only knew later
that he had fallen on his knees before my father
because he had brought his illegitimate daughter,

'RECOLLECTIONS' 3 1

Diinechka, about whom he had previously spoken
to my father, asking him to take her to be educated
with his own children. From that time there ap-
peared among us a broad-faced little girl of my
own age, Diinechka, with her nurse Evpraxia, a
tall wrinkled old woman with a pendulous jowl
like a turkey-cock's in which was a ball she allowed
us to feel.

The appearance in our house of Dunechka was
connected with a complicated transaction between
my father and Temyashov.

Temyashov was very wealthy. He had no
legitimate children, but there were two girls,
Dunechka and Verochka, a hunchbacked girl
whose mother Marfusha had been a serf-girl.
Temyashov's heirs were his two sisters. He was
leaving them all his other properties, but wished
to transfer Pirog6va, where he lived, to my father,
on condition that my father should hand over the
value of the estate, 300,000 rubles (it was always
said that Pirogova was a gold-mine and worth
much more than that), to the two girls. To arrange
this the following plan was devised: Temyashov
drew up a bill of sale by which he sold Pirog6va
to my father for 300,000 rubles, and my father
gave notes-of-hand for 100,000 rubles each to three
other people — Isle*nev, Yazykov, and Glebov. In
the event of Temyashov's death my father was to
receive the estate and (it having been explained
to Glebov, Isle*nev, and Yazykov with what object
the notes-of-hand had been made out in their
names) he was to pay the 300,000 rubles which
were to go to the two girls.

Perhaps I may not have stated the whole plan
correctly, but I know for certain that the estate of
Pirog6va passed to us after my father's death and
that there were three notes-of-hand in Isl&iev's,

32 'RECOLLECTIONS'

Glebov's, and Yazykov's names, and that our
guardian redeemed these notes-of-hand and the two
first-named each gave 100,000 rubles to the girls.
But Yazykov appropriated the money which did
not belong to him.

Dunechka lived with us and was a dear, simple,
quiet girl, but not clever, and a great cry-baby. I
remember that I, who had already been taught
to read French, was set to teach her the letters. At
first matters went well (she and I were both five
years old) but afterwards she probably grew tired
and no longer named correctly the letter I pointed
to. I insisted. She began to cry and so did I. And
when they came for us, our desperate tears pre-
vented our uttering a word.

Another thing I remember about her is that
when it appeared that one plum had been stolen
from the plate and the culprit could not be dis-
covered, Fedor Ivanovich with a serious mien, not
looking at us, said that it did not matter having
eaten it, but if the stone had been swallowed one
might die of it. Dunechka could not endure that
terror and exclaimed that she had spat out the
stone. I also remember her desperate tears when
she and my brother Mitenka (Dmitri) had started
a game of spitting a little brass chain into one
another's mouths, and she spat it out so forcibly
and Mitenka had opened his mouth so wide, that
he swallowed the chain. She wept inconsolably
till the doctor came and tranquillized us all.

She was not clever, but was a good simple-
minded girl, and above all was so chaste that
between us boys and her there were never any but
brotherly relations.

[Of the servants Tolstoy tells us:]

Prask6vya Isaevna I have described fairly

'RECOLLECTIONS' 33

accurately in Childhood under the name of Natalya
Savishna. All that I wrote about her was taken
from life. Praskovya Isaevna was a respected
person, the housekeeper, yet our, the children's,
little trunk stood in her little room. One of the
pleasantest impressions I have is of sitting in her
little room and talking or listening to her after
our lesson, or even in the middle of lesson-time.
Probably she liked to see us at that time of parti-
cularly happy and tender expansiveness. 4Pras-
k6vya Isaevna, how did grandpapa make war?
On horseback?' one would ask her with a grunt,
just to start her off on a conversation.

'He fought in every way, on horse and on foot.
That 's why he became a General en chefS she would
reply, and opening a cupboard would get out some
resin which she called 'Ochakov fumigation'. It
seemed from what she said that grandfather had
brought it back from the siege of Ochakov. She
would light a bit of paper at the little lamp burning
before the icon, and light the resin, which would
smoke with a pleasant aroma.

Besides an indignity she inflicted on me by
beating me with a wet napkin (as I have described
in Childhood) she also offended me on another
occasion. Among her duties was that of administer-
ing enemas to us when necessary. One morning,
after I had already ceased to live in the women's
quarters and had been moved downstairs to
Theodore Ivanovich's, we had just got up and my
elder brothers had already dressed. I however had
been slow and was only just taking off my dressing-
gown preparatory to putting on my clothes, when
Prask6vya Isaevna, with an old woman's quick
steps, entered with her instruments. They con-
sisted of a tube wrapped for some reason in a napkin
so that only the yellow horn nozzle was visible, and

439 O

34 'RECOLLECTIONS'

a small dish of olive oil in which the horn nozzle
was dipped. Seeing me, Praskovya Isaevna decided
that I must be the one Auntie intended the opera-
tion to be performed on. Really it was Mitenka
who, either by accident or guile, knowing that he
was threatened with an operation which we all
greatly disliked, had dressed quickly and left the
bedroom. And despite my sworn assurance that
the operation was not ordered for me, Praskovya
Isaevna administered it to me.

Besides loving her for her faithfulness and honesty
I loved her even more because she and old Anna
Ivanovna seemed to me to be representatives of the
mysterious side of grandfather's life connected with
the 'Ochakov fumigation'.

Anna Ivanovna was no longer in service but I
saw her once or twice at our house. They said
she was a hundred years old, and she remembered
Pugachev. She had very black eyes and one tooth,
and her extreme age was frightening to us children.

Nurse Tatiana Filfppovna, a small dusky young
woman with small plump hands, assisted old nurse
Annushka. I hardly remember Annushka herself,
simply because I was not conscious of myself except
with her, and as I did not observe or remember
myself so I did not observe and do not remember her.

But I remember the new arrival, Dunechka's
nurse Evpraxia with the ball in her neck, extremely
well. I remember how we took turns to feel that
ball, and how I understood, as something new,
that Nurse Annushka did not belong to everybody
but that Dunechka had a quite special nurse of her
own from Pirogova.

I remember Nurse Tatiana Filippovna because
later on she was nurse to my nieces and my eldest
son. She was one of those touching creatures from
among the people who become so attached to their

'RECOLLECTIONS' 35

foster-children that all their interests become
centred on them, and their own relations have
nothing but the possibility of wheedling out of them,
or inheriting, the money they earn.

Such people always seem to have spendthrift
brothers, husbands, and sons. And Tatiana Filip-
povna, as far as I remember, had such a husband
and son. I remember her dying, quietly and
meekly though painfully, in our house on the very
spot on which I am now sitting and writing these
recollections.

Her brother Nicholas Filippovich was our coach-
man, whom we not only loved, but for whom — like
the majority of landowners' children — we nursed
a great respect. He had particularly thick boots
and there was always a pleasant smell of the stables
about him and his voice was deep-toned and
affable

Vasili Trubetskoy, our butler, must be men-
tioned. He was an affable and kindly man who
was evidently fond of children, particularly of
Sergey in whose service he afterwards lived and
died. I remember how he sat us on a tray (that
was one of our great delights — 'Me too ! My turn !')
and carried us up and down the pantry, which
seemed to us a mysterious place with its entrance
from the basement. I remember his kindly crooked
smile and how closely one saw his shaven wrinkled
face and neck when he took us up in his arms.
There was also a particular smell I connect with
him. Another vivid recollection relates to his
departure for Shcherbachcvka, an estate in Kursk
province that my father received as an inheritance
from Petrovsky. Vasfli Trubetsk6y's departure
took place during the Christmas holidays when we
children and some of the household serfs were
playing 'Go, little ruble!5 in the big room.

36 'RECOLLECTIONS'

Something should also be told of those Christmas
amusements. All the household serfs — there were
perhaps thirty of them — came into the house in
fancy dress, played various games, and danced
to the music of old Gregory who appeared in the
house only at such times. This was very amusing.
The costumes were generally the same from year
to year: a bear with a leader, and a goat, Turks
and Turkish women, robbers, and peasant men
and women. I remember how handsome some of
those in costume seemed to me, particularly Masha
the Turk-girl. Sometimes Auntie dressed us up,
too. A certain belt with stones was specially
coveted and a piece of net embroidered with silver
and gold, and I thought myself very handsome
with a burnt-cork moustache. I remember looking
at myself in the glass with a black moustache and
eyebrows, and how though I ought to have assumed
the face of a majestic Turk I could not restrain a
smile of pleasure. The mummers walked through
all the rooms and were treated to various dainties.

At one of the Christmas holidays of my early
childhood the Islenevs all came to us in fancy
dress: the father (my wife's grandfather), his three
sons, and three daughters. They all wore wonderful
costumes. One represented a dressing-table, an-
other a boot, another a cardboard buffoon, and
a fourth something else. Having come thirty miles
and dressed themselves up in the village, they
entered our big room, and Islenev sat down to
the piano and sang verses of his own composition
in a voice I still remember.

The lines were:

To salute you at the New Year
We have come here for a spree.
If we can at all amuse you
We ourselves shall happy be.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 37

All this was very surprising and probably pleased
the grown-ups, but we children were best pleased
by the house serfs.

These festivities occurred between Christmas and
New Year, sometimes lasting even up to Twelfth
Night. But after New Year few people came and
the amusements flagged. So it was on the day that
Vasili started for Shcherbachevka. I remember
that we were sitting in a circle in a corner of the
large, dimly lighted room on home-made imitation-
mahogany chairs with leather cushions, and were
playing 'Little Ruble'. The ruble was passed from
hand to hand while we sang: 'Go, little ruble! Go,
little ruble!' and one of us went round and had to
find it. I remember that one of the domestic serf-
girls sang those words over and over again in a
particularly pleasant and true voice. Suddenly the
pantry door opened and Vasili, unusually buttoned
up and without his tray and dishes, passed along
the side of the room into the study. Only then did
I learn that he was going away to be steward at
Shcherbachevka. I understood that this was a
promotion for him and I was glad for his sake. At
the same time I was sorry to part from him and
to know that he would not be in the pantry again
and would no longer carry us on his tray. Indeed,
I could not even understand, and did not believe,
that such a change could take place. I became
terribly and mysteriously sad, and the refrain : 'Go,
little ruble !' seemed tenderly touching. And when
Vasili returned from saying good-bye to our aunts,
and came up to us with his kindly crooked smile,
kissing us on the shoulder, I for the first time
experienced horror and fear at the instability of
life, and pity and love for dear Vasili.

When later on I met Vasili, and saw him as my
brother's good or bad steward who was under

38 'RECOLLECTIONS'

suspicion, there was no longer any trace of that

former sacred, brotherly, human feeling.

[The next passage to this in the Recollections re-
lates to Nicholas, Tolst6y's eldest brother, and to the
'Ant-brothers' and the Fanfaronov Hill. It is given
in full on pp. 1 7 to 19 of vol. i of the Life of Tolstoy.]

[Of his other brothers Tolstoy tells us :]
Dmitri was my comrade, Nicholas I respected,
but I was enraptured by Sergey, imitated him, loved
him, and wished I were he. I was enraptured by his
handsome exterior, his voice (he was always singing) ,
his drawing, his gaiety, and in particular (strange as
it seems to say so), the spontaneity of his egotism. I
was always conscious of myself, always felt, mistaken-
ly or not, what other people thought and felt about
me, and this spoilt the joy of life for me. That is
probably why I particularly liked the opposite in
others — a spontaneous egotism. And for that in par-
ticular I loved Sergey — though the word 'loved' is
incorrect. I loved Nicholas, but I was enraptured by
Sergey as by something quite different from and in-
comprehensible to me. His was a human life, very
beautiful but quite incomprehensible to me, mys-
terious and on that account particularly attractive.
He died just the other day,1 and in his last illness
and on his death-bed he was as inscrutable to me
and as dear as in the far-off days of childhood.
Latterly, in his old age, he loved me more, valued
my attachment to him, was proud of me, and
wished to agree with me, but could not. He re-
mained what he had always been: himself, quite
singular, handsome, thoroughbred, proud, and
above all such a truthful and sincere man as I have
never met elsewhere. He was what he was, hid
nothing, and did not wish to appear anything else.
1 In August 1904. — A. M.

'RECOLLECTIONS1 39

With Nicholas I wished to be, to talk, and to
think. Sergey I simply wished to imitate. That
imitation began in early childhood. He started
keeping hens and chickens of his own, and I did
the same. That was almost my first insight into
animal life. I remember the different breeds of
chickens — grey, speckled, and crested. I remember
how they ran to our call, how we fed them, and
how we hated the big Dutch cock that ill-treated
them. It was Sergey who asked for the chickens
and started keeping them. I did the same merely
to imitate him. Sergey drew and coloured (wonder-
fully well as it seemed to me) a series of different
cocks and hens on a long sheet of paper, and I did
the same, but worse. (I hoped to perfect myself
in this by means of the Fanfar6nov Hill.) When
the double windows were put in for the winter*
Sergey invented a way of feeding his chickens
through the key-hole by means of long sausages
of white and black bread — and I did the same.

One insignificant occurrence left a strong im-
pression on my childish mind. I remember it now
as if it had just happened. Temyashov was sitting
in our nursery upstairs and talking to Fedor
Ivanovich. I do not remember why, but the con-
versation touched on the observance of fasts, and
Temyashov — good-natured Temyash6v — remarked
quite simply: 'I had a man-cook who took it into
his head to eat meat during a fast and I sent him
to serve as a soldier.' I remember it now because
it then seemed to me strange and unintelligible.

There was another occurrence — the Per6vskoe
inheritance.1 There was a memorable file of
horses and carts with high-piled loads which

1 The Pcr6vskoe inheritance consisted of two estates:
Shcherbachevka and Neruch in the Kursk province.

40 ' RECOLLECTIONS'

arrived from Neriich when the lawsuit about the
inheritance had been won thanks to Ilya Mitro-
fanych, who was a tall old man with white hair,
a former serf on the Perovskoe estate, a hard
drinker, and a great adept in all sorts of chicanery,
such as used to go on in the old days. He managed
the affair of that inheritance, and on that account
was allowed to live and was provided for at
Yasnaya Polyana till his death.

I also remember the arrival of the famous
'American' Theodore Tolst6y, an uncle of Valerian,
my sister's husband. I remember that he drove
up in a caliche with post-horses, went into my
father's study, and demanded that they should bring
him some special dry French bread. He ate no
other. My brother Sergey had bad toothache at
the time. Theodore asked what was the matter
with him, and on hearing what it was said that he
could stop the pain by magnetism. He went into
the study, closing the door behind him. A few
minutes later he came out with two lawn handker-
chiefs which I remember had borders with a lilac
design. He gave these to my aunt and said:
'When this one is applied the pain will pass, and
with this one he will go to sleep.' She took the
handkerchiefs, put them on Sergey, and we re-
tained the impression that everything happened
as he had said.

I remember his handsome face, bronzed and
shaven, with thick white whiskers down to the
corners of his mouth and similarly white curly hair.
There is much I should like to tell about that
extraordinary, criminal, and attractive man.1

A third impression was that of the visit of an

1 He was in part the original of D61okhov in War and Peace,
though Dav^dov, a guerilla leader in the war of independence,
furnished some of D61okhov's characteristics.— A. M.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 41

Hussar, Prince Volkonski, some sort of a cousin of
my mother's. He wished to caress me and sat me
on his knee, and as often happens went on talking
to the grown-ups while holding me. I struggled,
but he only held me the tighter. This continued
for a couple of minutes. But that feeling of im-
prisonment, loss of freedom, and use of force, made
me so indignant that I suddenly began to struggle
violently, cry, and hit out at him.

Two miles from Yasnaya Polyana lies the village
of Grumond (so named by my grandfather who
had been Military Governor of Archangel where
there is an island called Grumond). [At Grumond,
Tolstoy tells us, there was a very good cattle-yard
and a small but excellently built house for occa-
sional use. It was a great treat for the Tolstoy
children to spend the day at Grumond, where
there was a spring of excellent water and a pond
full of fish. He adds:]

But I remember that on one occasion our delight
was infringed by an occurrence which made us —
or at least Dmitri and me — cry bitterly. Bertha,
Fedor Ivanovich's dear brown dog, who had
beautiful eyes and soft curly hair, was as usual
running now in front and now behind our cabriolet
as we were returning home, when as we drove
away from the Grumond garden a peasant dog
flew at her. She rushed to the cabriolet. Fedor
Ivanovich, who was driving, could not stop the
horses and drove over her paw. When we had
returned home — poor Bertha running on three
legs — Fedor Ivanovich and Nikita Dmitrich (our
male nurse who was also a huntsman) examined
her and decided that her leg was broken and she
would never be of any use for hunting. I listened
to what they were saying in the little room upstairs

42 'RECOLLECTIONS'

and could not believe my ears when I heard Fedor
Ivanovich say, in a sort of swaggering tone of
decision: 'She's no more good. There's only one
way — to hang her!'

The dog was suffering, was ill, and was to be
hung for it ! I felt that it was wrong and ought not
to be done, but Fedor Ivanovich's tone and that of
Nikfta Dmitrich who approved the decision, were
so decided that, as on the occasion when Kuzma
was being taken to be flogged,1 and when Tem-
yashov related how he had sent a man to be a
soldier for having eaten meat during a fast, though
I felt there was something wrong I did not dare
to trust my feeling in face of the firm decision of
older people whom I respected.

I will not recount all my joyful childish memories
because there would be no end to them and be-
cause, though to me they are dear and important,,
I could not make them seem important to others.

I will only tell of one spiritual condition which
I experienced several times in my early childhood,
and which I think was more important than very
many feelings experienced later. It was important
because it was my first experience of love, not love
of some one person, but love of love, the love of
God, a feeling I subsequently experienced only
occasionally, but still did experience, thanks it
seems to me to the fact that its seed was sown in
earliest childhood. That condition manifested it-
self in this way : we, especially Dmitri and I and
the girls, used to seat ourselves under chairs as close
to one another as possible. These chairs were
draped with shawls and barricaded with cushions
and we said we were 'ant brothers', and thereupon
felt a particular tenderness for one another. Some-

1 This incident is given in the Life of Tolstdy, vol. i, p. 14. —
A. M.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 43

times this tenderness passed into caresses, stroking
one another or pressing against one another, but
that seldom happened and we ourselves felt it was
not the thing, and checked ourselves immediately.
To be 'ant brothers' as we called it (probably this
came from some stories of the Moravian Brothers1
which reached us through brother Nicholas's Fan-
faronov Hill) meant only to screen ourselves from
everybody, separate ourselves from everyone and
everything, and love one another.

Sometimes when under the chairs we talked of
what and whom each of us loved, of what is neces-
sary for happiness, and how we should live and
love everybody.

It began, I remember, from a game of travelling.
We seated ourselves on chairs, harnessed other
chairs, arranged a carriage or a cabriolet, and then
having settled down in the carriage we changed
from travellers into 'ant brothers'. To them other
people were joined up. It was very, very good, and
I thank God that I played it. We called it a game,
but really everything in the world is a game except
that.

[This repeated reference by Tolstoy to the 'ant
brotherhood' shows how much importance he
attributed to that game, full as it was of profound
human meaning.]

At the beginning of our life in Moscow when my
father was still alive, we had a pair of very fiery
horses bred in our own stables. My father's coach-
man, Mftka Kon^lov, also acted as his groom, and
was a very clever rider and huntsman besides being
an excellent coachman and above all an invaluable
postilion — invaluable because a boy could not
manage such fiery horses, and an old man would
1 In Russian 'ant' is muravSy.

44 'RECOLLECTIONS1

be heavy and unsuitable, whereas Mf tka united the
rare qualities a postilion requires: he was small,
light, and had strength and agility. I remember
that once when the carriage was brought for my
father, the horses bolted, dashing through the gate.
Someone cried out: 'The Count's horses have
bolted!' Pashenka fainted, and my aunts rushed
to grandmamma to calm her, but it turned out
that my father had not yet got into the carriage
and that Mitka dexterously held the horses in and
brought them back into the yard.

After my father's death when our expenses had
to be cut down, that same Mitka was released to
work on his own account on payment of a quit-
rent. Rich merchants competed for his service and
would have engaged him at a high salary, for Mitka
already swaggered about in silk shirts and velvet
coats. But it happened that his brother was chosen
to go as a soldier, and his father, who was already
an old man, called Mitka home to do the statutory
field labour. And within a month our small, smart
Mitka turned himself into a rough bast-shod
peasant, fulfilling the corvee and cultivating his
two allotments of land, mowing, ploughing, and
in general bearing the heavy burden of those days.
And he did all this without the least protest, feeling
conscious that it should be so and could not be
otherwise.

[In reply to an inquiry from his German bio-
grapher Lowenfeld as to how it was that Tolstoy
with his insatiable thirst for knowledge, left the
University without taking his degree, Tolstoy said :]

Yes, that was perhaps the chief cause of my
leaving the University. What our teachers at
Kazan lectured on interested me but little. At first
1 studied Oriental languages for a year, but made

'RECOLLECTIONS' 45

very little progress. I devoted myself ardently to
everything and read an endless quantity of books,
but always in one and the same direction. When
any subject interested me I did not turn from it
either to the right or to the left but tried to acquaint
myself with all that could throw light on it alone.
That was how it was with me in Kazan.

[On another occasion he said:]

The causes of my leaving the University were
two: (i) That my brother Sergey had finished the
course and left. (2) Strangely enough my work on
Catherine's Nakaz and the Esprit des lois (vshich I
still have) opened up for me a new sphere of inde-
pendent mental wrork, but the University with its
demands not only did not assist such work but
hindered it.

My brother Dmitri was a year older than I. He
had large dark, serious eyes. I hardly remember
him \vhen little and only know by hearsay that as
a child he was very capricious. It was said that
he had such fits of caprice that he grew angry and
cried because our nurse did not look at him, and
then grew angry and cried in the same way because
she did look at him. I know by hearsay that
mamma was much troubled about him. He was
nearest to me in age and we played more together,
and though I did not love him as much as I loved
Sergey or as I loved and respected Nicholas, he
and I were friendly together and I do not remember
that we quarrelled. We may have done so and may
even have fought, but the quarrels did not leave
the least trace and I loved him with a simple,
equable, natural love which I did not notice and
do not remember. I think and even know, for I
have experienced it especially in childhood, that
the love of others is a natural state of the soul, or

46 'RECOLLECTIONS'

rather a natural relation to people, and when that
state exists one does not notice it. It is noticed only
when one does not love — no, not 'does not love'
but fears — someone (in that way I feared beggars
and also one of the Volk6nskis who used to pinch
me, but I think I feared no one else), or when one
loves someone particularly, as I loved Auntie
Tatiana Alexandrovna, my brothers Sergey and
Nicholas, Vasfli, Nurse Isaevna, and Pashenka.

As a child I remember nothing about Dmitri
except his childish gaiety. His peculiarities showed
themselves and impressed themselves on me only
from the time we lived at Kazan, where we went
in the year eighteen forty, when he was thirteen.
Before that I only remember that he did not fall
in love as Sergey and I did, and in particular did
not like dances and military pageants, but that
he studied well and diligently. I remember that
our teacher, an undergraduate named Popl6nsky
who gave lessons, summed us up thus : 'Sergey both
wishes to and can, Dmitri wishes to but can't (that
was not true) and Leo neither wishes to nor can5
(that I think was perfectly correct).1

So that my real recollections of Dmitri begin in
Kazan. There, always imitating Sergey, I began
to grow depraved. There too, and even earlier, I
became concerned about my appearance. I tried
to be elegant and comme il faut. There was not a
trace of that in Dmitri. I think he never suffered
from the usual vices of youth. He was always
serious, thoughtful, pure, and resolute though hot-
tempered, and whatever he did he did to the ut-
most of his strength. When he swallowed the little
chain he was not, as far as I remember, particularly
uneasy about it, whereas I remember what terror

1 In another place Tolst6y has told this differently, and
found a place to include Nicholas. — A. M.

'RECOLLECTIONS' 47

I experienced when I swallowed the stone of a
French plum that auntie gave me, and how I
solemnly announced that calamity to her as if
certain death awaited me. I also remember how
we little ones tobogganed down a steep hill past
a shed: what fun it was, and how some passer-by
drove up that hill in a troyka instead of going
along the road. I think it was Sergey and a village
boy who were coming down and, unable to stop
the toboggan, fell under the horses' feet. They
scrambled out unhurt, and the troyka went on up
the hill. We were all preoccupied with the occur-
rence— how they got out from under the trace-
horse, how the shaft-horse shied, and so on. But
Dmitri (then about nine) went up to the man in
the sledge and began to scold him. I remember how
surprised I was and how it displeased me when he
said that for such a thing — for daring to drive
where there was no road — he ought to be sent to
the stable, which in the language of those days
meant that he ought to be flogged.

His peculiarities first appeared at Kazan. He
learnt well and steadily and wrote verses with great
facility. (I remember how admirably he trans-
lated Schiller's Der Jungling am Bache) but he did
not devote himself to that occupation. I remember
how he once began playing pranks, and how this
delighted the girls and I felt jealous arid thought
they were so delighted because he was always
serious, and I wished to imitate him in that. The
aunt who was our guardian (Pelageya Ilynishna)
had the very stupid idea of giving each of us a serf-
boy who should later on become our devoted body-
servant. To Dmitri she gave Vanyusha who is still
living. Dmitri often treated him badly and I think
even beat him. I say 'I think' because I do not
remember his doing so but only remember his

48 'RECOLLECTIONS'

penitence addressed to Vanyiisha for something

he had done to him, and his humble appeal for

forgiveness.

So he grew up unnoticed, having little intercourse
with others, and except at moments of anger quiet
and serious, with pensive, serious, large brown
eyes. He was tall, rather thin, not very strong,
with large long hands and round shoulders. He
was a year younger than Sergey but entered the
University at the same time, in the Mathematical
Faculty merely because his elder brother was a
mathematician.

I do not know how or by what he was at so early
an age attracted towards a religious life, but it
began in the first year of his life at the University.
His religious aspirations naturally directed him to
the Church, and he devoted himself to this with his
usual thoroughness. He began to eat Lenten food,
went to all the Church services, and became even
stricter in his life.

Dmitri must have had that valuable character-
istic which I believe my mother had and which I
knew in Nicholas but which I entirely lacked —
namely, complete indifference as to what other
people thought of him. Until quite lately, in old
age, I have never been able to divest myself of
concern about other people's opinion, but Dmitri
was quite free from this. I never remember seeing
that restrained smile on his face which involun-
tarily appears when one is being praised. I always
remember his large, serious, quiet, sad, almond-
shaped hazel eyes. Only in our Kazan days did
we begin to pay particular attention to him and
then only because, while Sergey and I attributed
great importance to what was comme il faut — to
externals — he was untidy and dirty and we con-
demned him for that. He did not dance and did

•RECOLLECTIONS' 49

not wish to learn to, did not as a student go out
into society, wore only a student's coat with a
narrow cravat, and from his youth had a twitching
of the face — he twisted his head as if to free himself
from the narrowness of his cravat.

His peculiarity first showed itself during his first
fasting in preparation for communion. He pre-
pared not at the fashionable University Church
but at the Prison Church. We were living in
Gortalov's house opposite the prison. At this
church there was a particularly pious and strict
priest who, as something unusual, used during
Holy Week to read through the whole of the Gospels
as is prescribed but seldom done, and so the ser-
vices lasted particularly long. Dmitri stood through
them all and made acquaintance with the priest.
The church was so built that the place where
the prisoners stood was only separated by a glass
partition with a door in it. Once one of the
prisoners wished to pass something to the deacons
— either a taper or money for a taper. No one in
the church wished to undertake that commission,
but Dmitri with his serious face promptly took it
and handed it over. It appeared that this was not
allowed and he received a reprimand, but con-
sidering that it ought to be done, he continued
to act in the same way on similar occasions.

I remember a certain incident after we had
moved to another lodging . . . our upstairs rooms
were separated into two parts. In the first part
lived Dmitri, and in the further part Sergey and I.
Sergey and I were fond of having ornaments to put
on our little tables, like grown-up people, and such
things were given to us as presents. Dmitri had
nothing of the sort. The only thing he took of our
father's possessions was a collection of minerals.

50 'RECOLLECTIONS'

He arranged them, labelled them, and put them
in a glass-covered case. As we brothers and our
aunt regarded Dmitri with some contempt for his
low tastes and acquaintances, our frivolous friends
adopted a similar tone. One of them, a very
limited fellow (an engineer, Es, who was our friend
not so much by our choice as because he attached
himself to us), passing through Dmitri's room on
one occasion, noticed the minerals and put a
question to Dmitri. Es was unsympathetic and
unnatural. Dmitri answered him reluctantly. Es
moved the case and shook it. Dmitri said: 'Leave
it alone!' Es did not obey and made some jest,
calling him, if I remember right, 'Noah.'1 Dmitri
flew into a rage and hit Es in the face with his
enormous hand. Es took to flight and Dmitri after
him. When they reached our domain we shut the
door on Dmitri, but he announced that he would
beat Es when the latter went back. Sergey and,
I think, Shuvalov went to persuade Dmitri to let
Es pass, but he took up a broom and announced
that he would certainly give him a thrashing. I
don't know what would have happened had Es
gone through his room, but the latter asked us to
find a way out for him, and we got him out as best
we could, almost crawling through a dusty attic.

Such was Dmitri in his moments of anger. But
this is what he was like when no one drew him out
of himself. In our family a very strange and pitiful
creature, a certain Lyubov Sergeevna, an old maid,
had found a place for herself, or had been taken in
out of pity. I do not know her surname. She was
the offspring of the incestuous relations of some
Protasovs (the Protasovs to whom Zhuk6vski the
poet belonged). How she came to us I do not

1 This reference to Noah is explained in Tolst6y's Con-
fession, p. 3. — A. M.

•RECOLLECTIONS' 5 1

know. I heard that they pitied her, petted her,
and had even wished to marry her to Fedor
Ivanovich, but that all came to nothing. She lived
with us for a while at Yasnaya Polyana (I do not
remember it) but afterwards she was taken to
Kazan by my aunt Pelageya Ilynishna and lived
with her. I came to know her there. She was a
pitiable, meek, down-trodden creature. They let
her have a little room, and a girl to look after her.
When I knew her she was not only pitiable but
hideous. I do not know what her illness was, but
her face was swollen as if it had been stung by
bees. Her eyes were just narrow slits between two
swollen shiny cushions without eyebrows. Similarly
swollen, shiny, and yellow were her cheeks, nose,
lips, and mouth. She spoke with difficulty (having
probably a similar swelling in her mouth). In
summer, flies used to settle on her face and she did
not feel them, which was particularly unpleasant
to witness. Her hair was still black but scanty, and
did not hide her scalp. Vasili Ivanovich Yushkov,
our aunt's husband, who was an ill-natured jester,
did not conceal the repulsion he felt for her. A
bad smell always came from her, and in her little
room, the windows of which were never opened, the
odour was stifling. And this Lyubov Sergeevna
became Dmitri's friend. He began to go to see her,
to listen to her, to talk to her, and to read to her.
And we were morally so dense that we only
laughed at it, while Dmitri was morally so superior,
so free from caring about people's opinion, that he
never by word or hint showed that he considered
that what he was doing was good. He simply did
it. And it was not a momentary impulse but con-
tinued all the time we lived in Kazan.

How clear it is to me now that Dmitri's death
did not annihilate him, that he existed before I

52 'RECOLLECTIONS'

knew him, before he was born, and that he exists

now after his death!

[The account of Nicholas LeVin's last illness and
death, told in Anna Karenina, Part III, chapters 31
and 32, and in Part IV, chapters 17 to 20 inclusive,
is closely drawn from Dmitri's illness and death,
which occurred in January 1857. The following
notes which Tolstoy gave to Birukov complete what
he wrote about Dmitri.]

When our inheritance was divided up, the estate
of Yasnaya Polyana where we were living was
allotted to me, the youngest son, as was customary.
Sergey, as there was a horse-stud at Pirogovo and
he was very fond of horses, received that estate,
which was what he wanted. The two remaining
estates went to Nicholas and Dmitri — Nicholas
receiving Nikolskoe and Dmitri receiving Shcher-
bachevka (in Kursk province) which we had in-
herited from Perovsky. I still have a memorandum
of Dmitri's regarding the ownership of serfs. The
idea that such ownership should not exist, and that
serfs should be liberated, was quite unknown in
our circle in the eighteen forties. The ownership
of serfs by inheritance seemed a necessary condi-
tion, and all that could be done to ensure that such
ownership should not be an evil, was to attend not
only to the material but also to the moral condition
of the serfs. And in that sense Dmitri's memoran-
dum was written, very seriously, naively, and sin-
cerely. He, a lad of twenty (when he took his
degree) , took on himself the duty, and considered
that he could not but undertake the duty, of
morally guiding hundreds of peasant families, and
guiding them by threats and punishments in the
manner Gogol recommends in his Letter to a Land-
owner. I remember that Dmitri had read that
letter which was pointed out to him by the prison

•RECOLLECTIONS' 53

priest. So Dmitri took up his duties as a landowner.
But besides those obligations of a landowner to his
serfs, there was at that time another obligation,
neglect of which was unthinkable, namely, the
Military or Civil Service. And Dmitri, having taken
his degree, decided to take up the Civil Service. In
order to decide which branch to select he bought
a directory and, having considered all the various
branches, decided that the most important was
the legislative. Having decided that, he went to
Petersburg and called on the Secretary of State of
the Second Department at the hour when he re-
ceived petitioners. I can imagine Taneev's amaze-
ment when among the petitioners he stopped before
a tall, round-shouldered, badly-dressed young man
(Dmitri always dressed merely to cover his body)
with beautiful tranquil eyes and face, and on
asking what he wanted received the reply that he
was a Russian nobleman who had finished his
course at the University and wishing to be of use
to his fatherland had chosen legislation for his
sphere of activity.

'Your name?'

'Count Tolstoy.'

'You have not served anywhere?'

'I have only just finished my course and I only
wish to be useful.'

'What post do you want?'

'It is all the same to me — one in which I can be
useful.'

Dmitri's serious sincerity so impressed Taneev
that he took him into the Second Department and
there handed him over to an official.

Probably that official's attitude towards him, and
still more his attitude towards the business of the
Department, repelled Dmitri, for he did not enter
the Second Department. He had no acquaintance

54 'RECOLLECTIONS"

in Petersburg except D. A. Obolenski, the jurist,
who had been a lawyer in Kazan when we lived
there. Dmitri went to see Obolenski at his ddcha
[country house for summer use] and Obolenski
laughingly told me about it.

Obolenski was a very ambitious, fashionable, and
tactful man. He related how while he was enter-
taining guests (probably of high rank, such as he
always cultivated) Dmitri came to him through the
garden in a cap and a nankeen overcoat. 'At first
I did not recognize him, but when I did so I tried
to le mettre d son aise, introduced him to the guests,
and asked him to take off his overcoat, but it
appeared that he had nothing on under it.' (He
considered that unnecessary.) Dmitri sat down and
unembarrassed by the presence of the guests im-
mediately turned to Obolenski with the same
question he had put to Taneev — where it would be
best to serve so as to be of most use? To Obolenski,
who looked on the Service merely as a means of
satisfying his ambition, such a question had prob-
ably never presented itself. But with the tact and
superficial amiability natural to him he replied by
indicating various positions and offering his ser-
vices. But Dmitri was evidently dissatisfied with
Obolenski as well as with Taneev, for he left
Petersburg without entering the Service there. He
went to his own place in the country, and at
Sudzha, I think it was, took up some post in the
nobility's organization and concerned himself with
farming, principally peasant-farming.

After we left the University I lost sight of him,
but I know that he continued to live the same strict,
abstemious life as before, not touching wine,
tobacco, or women till the age of twenty-six —
which was a very rare thing at that period. I know
that he associated with monks and pilgrims and

'RECOLLECTIONS' 55

became closely associated with a very original man
who lived with our guardian Vockov, and whose
origin no one knew. He was called Father Luke,
and went about in a sort of cassock. He was very
hideous: short, crooked, dark, but very clean and
extraordinarily strong. He pressed one's hands as
with pincers, and always spoke in a significant and
mysterious way. He lived with Voekov by the
mill, where he built a small house and arranged
a remarkable parterre. Dmitri used to take this
Father Luke about with him. I have heard that
he also went about with a landowning house-
grabber of the old sort, a neighbour of Samoylov's.
I had, I believe, already gone to the Caucasus
when an extraordinary change came over Dmitri.
He suddenly began to drink, smoke, squander
money, and go about with women. How it hap-
pened I do not know, and I did not see him at that
period. I only know that the man who led him
astray was Islenev's youngest son, externally very
attractive but also profoundly immoral. In this
life Dmitri was still the same serious, religious man
he had always been. He bought the prostitute
Masha, the woman he first knew, out of the brothel
and took her to live with him. But this new life
did not endure long. I think it was not so much
the bad, unwholesome life he led for some months
in Moscow, as the inward struggle caused by
reproaches of conscience, that suddenly ruined his
powerful constitution. He fell ill with consumption,
went back to the country, underwent treatment in
towns, and collapsed in Orel, where I saw him for
the last time, after the Crimean War. His appear-
ance then was terrible. His enormous hands just
hung onto the two bones of his arms, and his face
seemed all eyes — the same beautiful, serious eyes,
but now they had a Questioning look. He coughed

56 RECOLLECTIONS'

continually and spat, and did not wish to die or
to believe that he was dying. Pock-marked Masha
whom he had bought out was with him and tended
him, her head bound in a kerchief. When I was
there a wonder-working icon was brought to the
house at his wish and I remember the expression
on his face as he prayed to it.

I was particularly detestable at that time. I was
full of conceit and had come to Orel from Peters-
burg, where I had been going out into society. I
pitied Dmitri, but not very much. I went to Orel and
returned to Petersburg, and he died a few days later.

It really seems to me now that his death troubled
me chiefly because it prevented me from taking part
in a Court spectacle that was then being arranged
and to which I had been invited.

[When dealing in his biography of L. N. Tolst6y
with the incident of Tolstoy's defence of a soldier
on trial for his life for striking an officer, Birukov
asked Tolstoy to tell him something more than had
been previously published about it, and Tolstoy
wrote him the following letter :]

Dear friend Pavel Ivanovich,

I am very glad to fulfil your wish and tell you
more fully of what I thought and felt in connexion
with my defence of the soldier about which you
write in your book. That incident had much more
influence on my life than all the apparently more
important events — the loss or recovery of my for-
tune, my success or non-success in literature, and
even the loss of people near to me.

I will tell how it all happened, and will then try
to express the thoughts and feelings aroused in me
by the occurrence at the time, and by the recollec-
tion of it now.

'RECOLLECTIONS* 57

I do not remember what I was specially occupied
with or absorbed in at the time — you will know
that better than I. I only know that I was living
a tranquil, self-satisfied, and thoroughly egotistic
life. In the summer of 1866 we were quite un-
expectedly visited by Grisha Kolokoltsev, a cadet
who used to know the Behrs and was an acquain-
tance of my wife's. It turned out that he was serving
in an infantry regiment stationed in our vicinity.
He was a gay, good-natured lad, specially pre-
occupied at that time by his small Cossack horse
on which he liked to prance, and he often rode
over to see us.

Thanks to him we also made acquaintance with
his commanding officer, Colonel Yu..., and with
A. M. Stasyulevich who had either been reduced
to the ranks or sent to serve as a soldier for some
political affair (I don't remember which), and who
was a brother of the well-known editor. Stasyule-
vich was no longer a young man. He had then
recently been promoted from the ranks and made
an ensign, and had joined the regiment of his
former comrade Yu..., who was now his colonel.
Both Yu... and Stasyulevich rode over to see us
occasionally. Yu... was a stout, red-faced, good-
natured bachelor of a type one often meets, in
whom human nature is entirely subordinated to
the conventional position in which they are placed,
and the retention of which is the chief aim of their
life. For Colonel Yu... that conventional position
was his status as a regimental commander. From
a human standpoint it is impossible to say of such
a man whether he is good or reasonable, for one
does not know what he would be like if he ceased
to be a colonel, a professor, a minister, a judge,
or a journalist, and were to become a human being.
So it was with Colonel Yu... He was an acting

58 'RECOLLECTIONS'

regimental commander, but what sort of man he
was it was impossible to tell. I think he did not
know himself and was not even interested in it.
But StasyuleVich was a live man, though mutilated
in various ways and most of all by the misfortunes
and humiliations which he, an ambitious and
egotistic man, had so painfully endured. So it
seemed to me, but I did not know him sufficiently
to penetrate more deeply into his mental condition.
I only know that intercourse with him was pleasant
and evoked a mingled feeling of compassion and
respect. Later on I lost sight of him, and not long
afterwards, when their regiment was already
stationed elsewhere, I heard that he had taken his
own life in the strangest manner, and without, it
vras said, any personal reasons. Early one morning
he put on a heavy wadded military overcoat and
walked into the river where, as he could not swim,
he sank on reaching a deep place.

I do not remember whether it was Kolokoltsev
or Stasyulevich who, having come to us one day
in summer, told of something that had occurred —
a most terrible and unusual event for military men.
A soldier had struck a company commander, a
captain from the Academy. Stasyulevich spoke of
the affair with particular warmth and with feeling
for the fate that awaited the soldier, namely, the
death-sentence, and asked me to plead his cause
before the military tribunal.

I should mention that I was always not merely
shocked by the fact that some men should sentence
others to death and that yet others should perform
the execution, but it appeared to me an impossible,
invented thing — one of those deeds in the perfor-
mance of which one refuses to believe though one
knows quite well that such actions have been and
are performed. Capital punishment has been and

•RECOLLECTIONS1 59

remains for me one of those human actions the
actual performance of which does not infringe in
me the consciousness of their impossibility.

I understand that under the influence of momen-
tary irritation, hatred, revenge, or loss of conscious-
ness of his humanity, a man may kill another in his
own defence or in defence of a friend ; or that under
the influence of patriotic mass-hypnotism and while
exposing himself to death he may take part in
collective murder in war. But that men in full
control of their human attributes can quietly and
deliberately admit the necessity of killing a fellow
man, and can oblige others to perform that action
so contrary to human nature, I never can under-
stand. Nor did I understand it then when I was
living my limited egotistical life in 1866, and so,
strange as it may have been, I undertook the man's
defence with some hope of success.

I remember that arriving at the village of (3zerki
where the prisoner was kept (I don't quite remem-
ber whether it was in a special building or the one
in which the deed had been committed) I entered
the low brick hut and was met by a small man
with high cheek-bones who was stout rather than
thin, which is very rare among soldiers, and who
had a very simple, unchanging expression of face.
I don't remember who was with me, but I think
it was Kolokoltsev. When we entered the man
rose in military fashion. I explained to him that
I wished to be his advocate and asked him to tell
me how the affair had occurred. He said little, and
answered my questions reluctantly with 'just so'.
The sense of his replies was that it had been very
dull and the captain had been very exacting. 'He
pressed me very hard,' said he. ...

As I understood, the reason of his action was that
the captain — a man always apparently calm — had

6o •RECOLLECTIONS'

for some months brought him to the last degree of
exasperation by his quiet monotonous voice, de-
manding implicit obedience and the rewriting of
work which the man (an office orderly) considered
he had done correctly. The essence of the matter,
as I then understood it, was that besides the official
relations between the two, a painful relation of
mutual hatred had established itself between them.
The company commander, as often happens, felt
an antipathy to the man, which was increased by
a suspicion that the man in his turn hated him for
being a Pole ; and availing himself of his position
he took pleasure in being always dissatisfied with
whatever the man did, and repeatedly obliged him
to rewrite what the man himself considered to be
faultlessly done. The man for his part hated the
captain both for being a Pole and for not acknow-
ledging his competence, and most of all for his
calmness and the unapproachability of his position.
That hatred finding no vent burnt up more fiercely
with each new reproach that was uttered, and on
reaching its zenith burst out in a way he did not
himself at all anticipate. In your Biography it is
said that the explosion was evoked by the captain
saying he would have the man flogged. That is a
mistake. The captain gave him back a paper and
ordered him to correct it and rewrite it.

The Court was soon set up. The President was
Yu... and the two assistant members were Kolo-
koltsev and Stasyulevich. The prisoner was brought
in. After I forget what formalities, I read my speech,
which now not only seems to me strange but fills
me with shame. The judges, their weariness
evidently only concealed by propriety, listened to
all the futilities I uttered referring to such-and-
such an article of volume so-and-so, and, when it
had all been heard, went out to consult together.

•RECOLLECTIONS' 6 1

At that consultation, as I subsequently learnt, only
StasyuleVich was in favour of the application of
the stupid paragraph of the law that I had cited,
namely, that the prisoner should be acquitted on
the ground of his irresponsibility for the action.
Kolokoltsev, good kindly lad, though he certainly
would have liked to do what I wanted, neverthe-
less submitted to Yu..., and his vote decided the
matter. Sentence of death by being shot was read.
Immediately after the trial I wrote to a near
friend of mine, Alexandra Andreevna Tolstaya, a
Maid of Honour and in favour at Court, asking
her to intercede with the Emperor (Alexander II)
for a pardon for Shibunin. I wrote to her, but dis-
tractedly omitted to give the name of the regiment
in which the case had occurred. She addressed
herself to Milyutin, the Minister of War, but he
said it was impossible to petition the Emperor with-
out indicating the prisoner's regiment. She wrote
that to me and I hastened to reply, but the regi-
mental commander also hastened, and by the time
the petition was ready for presentation to the
Emperor the execution had already taken place. . . .

Yes, it is horribly revolting to me now to re-read
my pitiful, repulsive speech for the defence, which
you have printed. Speaking of the most evident
infringement of all laws human and divine, which
some men were preparing to perpetrate against
their brother-man, I did nothing better than cite
some stupid words written by somebody and en-
titled laws.

Yes, I am ashamed now to have uttered that
wretched and stupid defence. If a man under-
stands what people have assembled to do — sitting
in their uniforms on three sides of a table and
imagining that, because they are so sitting, and
because certain words are written in certain books

62 'RECOLLECTIONS'

and on certain sheets of paper with printed head-
ings, they may infringe the eternal, general law
written not in books but in every human heart —
then the one thing that may and should be said
to such men is to beseech them to remember who
they are and what they propose to do, and cer-
tainly not to prove astutely by false and stupid
words called laws, that it is possible not to kill the
man before them. All men know that the life of
every man is sacred and that no man has a right
to deprive another of life, and it cannot be proved
because it needs no proof. Only one thing is
possible, necessary, and right: to try to free men —
judges — from the stupefaction that leads them to
such a wild and inhuman intention. To prove
that one should not sentence a man to death is
the same as to prove that a man should not do
what is repellant and contrary to his nature: that
he should not go naked in winter, should not feed
himself on the contents of cesspools, and should
not walk on all fours. That it is discordant with,
and contrary to, human nature was proved long
ago by the story of the woman who was to be
stoned to death.

Is it possible that people are now so just —
Colonel Yu... and Grisha Kolokoltsev with his
little horse — that they no longer fear to cast the
first stone?

I did not then understand this, and did not under-
stand it when, through my cousin Tolstaya, I
petitioned for a pardon for Shibunin. I cannot
but feel amazed at the delusion I then was in that
all that was done to Shibunin was quite normal.

I did not then understand anything of this. I
only dimly felt that something had happened that
should not have happened, and that this affair was

•RECOLLECTIONS' 63

not a casual occurrence but had a profound con-
nexion with all the other errors and sufferings of
mankind and that it lies indeed at the root of all
of them.

Even then I felt dimly that the death penalty,
a conscious, deliberate, and premeditated murder,
is an action directly contrary to the Christian law
which we, it would seem, profess, and is an action
obviously infringing the possibility both of a
reasonable life and of any morality. For it is
evident that if one man, or an assembly of men,
may decide that it is necessary to kill one man or
many men, there is nothing to prevent another
man or other men from finding a similar necessity
for the murder of others. And what reasonable life
or morality can there be among people who may
kill one another when they please to do so?

I dimly felt even then that the justification of
murder that is put forward by the Church and
by science, instead of attaining its object of justify-
ing the use of violence, proved on the contrary the
falsity of the Church and of science. I had felt
that dimly for the first time in Paris when I was
a far-off witness of an execution,1 and I felt it more
clearly — far more clearly — now when I took part in
this affair. But I still feared to trust myself and
sunder myself from the judgement of the whole
world. Only much later was I brought to the neces-
sity of believing my own convictions and denying
those two terrible deceptions that hold the people of
our day in their power and produce all those mis-
fortunes from which mankind suffers : the deception
of the Church and the deception of science.

Only much later when I began to examine
attentively the arguments by which the Church and
science try to support and justify the existing
1 In 1857. See Confession, p. 12. — A. M.

64 RECOLLECTIONS'

State, did I see through the obvious and coarse
deceptions by which they both try to hide from
men the evil deeds the State commits. I saw those
disquisitions in the catechism and in scientific
books circulated by millions, in which the right-
ness and necessity of the murder of some people at
the will of others is explained. . . .

In scientific works of two kinds — those called
jurisprudence with their criminal law, and in works
of what is called pure science — the same thing is
argued with even more narrowness and confidence.
About criminal law there is nothing to be said : it is
all a series of most evident sophistries aiming at
the justification of all sorts of violence done by man
to man, as well as of murder itself. And in the
scientific works, beginning with Darwin who puts
the law of the struggle for existence at the basis of
the progress of life, the same is implied. Some
enfants terribles of that doctrine, like the celebrated
professor Ernst Haeckel of Jena University in his
famous work Naturliche Schopfungsgeschichte (the
gospel of sceptics) , state it plainly :

'Artificial selection exerts a very beneficial influ-
ence on the cultural life of humanity. How great
in the complex advance of civilization is, for
instance, a good school education and upbringing !
Like artificial selection, capital punishment also
renders a similarly beneficial influence, though at
the present day many people ardently advocate
its abolition as a 'liberal measure', and produce a
series of absurd arguments in the name of a false
humanitarianism.

'In fact, however, capital punishment, for the
enormous majority of incorrigible criminals and
scoundrels, is not only a just retribution but also
a great benefit for the better part of mankind, just
as for the successful cultivation of a well-tended

'RECOLLECTIONS' 65

garden the destruction of harmful weeds is neces-
sary. And just as the careful removal of the weedy
overgrowth gives more light, air, and room to
plants, the unremitting extinction of all hardened
criminals will not merely lighten the "struggle for
existence" for the better part of humanity, but will
produce an artificial selection advantageous for it,
since in that way those degenerate dregs of
humanity will be deprived of the possibility of
passing on their bad qualities to the rest of man-
kind.'

And people read that, teach it, call it science, and
it enters no one's head to put the question that
naturally presents itself, as to who — if it is useful
to kill the harmful people — is to decide \\lio is
harmful? I, for instance, consider that I do not
know anyone worse and more harmful than Mr.
Haeckel. Am I and others of my opinion really
to sentence Mr. Haeckel to be hanged? On the
contrary, the more profound his error the more
I should wish him to become reasonable, and in no
case should I wish to deprive him of the possibility
of becoming so.

It is Church lies and scientific lies such as these
that have brought us to the position we are now
in. Not months but years have now passed during
which there has not been a day without executions
and murders. Some people are glad when there
are more murders by the government than by the
revolutionaries, and others are glad when more
generals, landowners, merchants, and policemen
are killed. On the one hand, rewards of ten and
twenty-five rubles are paid out for murders, and
on the other the revolutionists honour murderers
and expropriators and extol them as heroic
martyrs. . . . Tear not them which kill the body,
but those that destroy both soul and body. . . .'

459 D

66 'RECOLLECTIONS*

All this I understood much later, but dimly felt
even when I so stupidly and shamefully defended
that unfortunate soldier. That is why I say that
that incident has had a very strong and important
influence on my life.

Yes, that incident had an enormous and bene-
ficial influence on me. On that occasion I felt
for the first time, primarily that all violence pre-
supposes for its accomplishment murder, or a
threat of murder, and that therefore all violence
is inevitably connected with murder; secondly that
the organization of government is unimaginable
without murders and is therefore incompatible
with Christianity ; and thirdly that what among us
is called science is only a lying justification of
existing evils, just as the Church teaching used
to be.

That is clear to me now, but then it was only
a dim recognition of the falsehood amid which my
life was passing.

LEO TOLSTOY.

YASNAYA POLYANA,

24th May

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY
THEMSELVES?

I

WHAT is the explanation of the fact that people
use things that stupefy them: v6dka, wine,
beer, hashish, opium, tobacco, and other things
less common : ether, morphia, fly-agaric, &c. ? Why
did the practice begin? Why has it spread so
rapidly, and why is it still spreading among all
sorts of people, savage and civilized? How is it
that where there is no v6dka, wine or beer, we
find opium, hashish, fly-agaric, and the like, and
that tobacco is used everywhere?

Why do people wish to stupefy themselves ?

Ask anyone why he began drinking wine and
why he now drinks it. He will reply, 'Oh, I like
it, and everybody drinks,' and he may add, 'it
cheers me up.' Some — those who have never once
taken the trouble to consider whether they do well
or ill to drink wine — may add that wrine is good
for the health and adds to one's strength; that is
to say, will make a statement long since proved
baseless.

Ask a smoker why he began to use tobacco and
why he now smokes, and he also will reply: 'To
while away the time; everybody smokes.'

Similar answers would probably be given by
those who use opium, hashish, morphia, or fly-
agaric.

'To while away time, to cheer oneself up ; every-
body does it.' But it might be excusable to twiddle
one's thumbs, to whistle, to hum tunes, to play
a fife or to do something of that sort 'to while
away the time,' 'to cheer oneself up,' or 'because

68 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
everybody does it' — that is to say, it might be
excusable to do something which does not involve
wasting Nature's wealth, or spending what has cost
great labour to produce, or doing what brings
evident harm to oneself and to others. But to pro-
duce tobacco, wine, hashish, and opium, the labour
of millions of men is spent, and millions and millions
of acres of the best land (often amid a population
that is short of land) are employed to grow
potatoes, hemp, poppies, vines, and tobacco.
Moreover, the use of these evidently harmful
things produces terrible evils known and admitted
by everyone, and destroys more people than all the
wars and contagious diseases added together. And
people know this, so that they cannot really use
these things 'to while away time,' 'to cheer them-
selves up,' or because 'everybody does it.'

There must be some other reason. Continually
and everywhere one meets people who love their
children and are ready to make all kinds of sacri-
fices for them, but who yet spend on vodka, wine
and beer, or on opium, hashish, or even tobacco,
as much as would quite suffice to feed their hungry
and poverty-stricken children, or at least as much
as would suffice to save them from misery. Evi-
dently if a man who has to choose between the
want and sufferings of a family he loves on the
one hand, and abstinence from stupefying things
on the other, chooses the former — he must be
induced thereto by something more potent than
the consideration that everybody does it, or that
it is pleasant. Evidently it is done not 'to while
away time,9 nor merely 'to cheer himself up.' He
is actuated by some more powerful cause.

This cause — as far as I have detected it by
reading about this subject and by observing other
people, and particularly by observing my own

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 69
case when I used to drink wine and smoke tobacco
— this cause, I think, may be explained as follows:

When observing his own life, a man may often
notice in himself two different beings: the one is
blind and physical, the other sees and is spiritual.
The blind animal being eats, drinks, rests, sleeps,
propagates, and moves, like a wound-up machine.
The seeing, spiritual being that is bound up with
the animal does nothing of itself, but only ap-
praises the activity of the animal being; coinciding
with it when approving its activity, and diverging
from it when disapproving.

This observing being may be compared to the
needle of a compass, pointing with one end to the
north and with the other to the south, but screened
along its whole length by something not noticeable
so long as it and the needle both point the same
way; but which becomes obvious as soon as they
point different ways.

In the same manner the seeing, spiritual being,
whose manifestation we commonly call conscience,
always points with one end towards right and with
the other towards wrong, and we do not notice
it while we follow the course it shows: the course
from wrong to right. But one need only do some-
thing contrary to the indication of conscience to
become aware of this spiritual being, which then
shows how the animal activity has diverged from
the direction indicated by conscience. And as a
navigator conscious that he is on the wrong track
cannot continue to work the oars, engine, or sails,
till he has adjusted his course to the indications of
the compass, or has obliterated his consciousness
of this divergence — each man who has felt the
duality of his animal activity and his conscience
can continue his activity only by adjusting that
activity to the demands of conscience, or by hiding

70 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
from himself the indications conscience gives him
of the wrongness of his animal life.

All human life, we may say, consists solely of
these two activities: (i) bringing one's activities
into harmony with conscience, or (2) hiding from
oneself the indications of conscience in order to
be able to continue to live as before.

Some do the first, others the second. To attain
the first there is but one means: moral enlighten-
ment— the increase of light in oneself and attention
to what it shows. To attain the second — to hide
from oneself the indications of conscience — there
are two means : one external and the other internal.
The external means consists in occupations that
divert one's attention from the indications given
by conscience; the internal method consists in
darkening conscience itself.

As a man has two ways of avoiding seeing an
object that is before him: either by diverting his
sight to other more striking objects, or by obstruct-
ing the sight of his own eyes — just so a man can
hide from himself the indications of conscience in
two ways: either by the external method of divert-
ing his attention to various occupations, cares,
amusements, or games; or by the internal method
of obstructing the organ of attention itself. For
people of dull, limited moral feeling, the external
diversions are often quite sufficient to enable them
not to perceive the indications conscience gives
of the wrongness of their lives. But for morally
sensitive people those means are often insufficient.

The external means do not quite divert attention
from the consciousness of discord between one's
life and the demands of conscience. This con-
sciousness hampers one's life: and in order to be
able to go on living as before people have recourse
to the reliable, internal method, which is that of

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 71
darkening conscience itself by poisoning the brain
with stupefying substances.

One is not living as conscience demands, yet
lacks the strength to reshape one's life in accord
with its demands. The diversions \\hich might
distract attention from the consciousness of this
discord are insufficient, or have become stale, and
so — in order to be able to live on, disregarding
the indications conscience gives of the wrong-
ness of their life — people (by poisoning it tempora-
rily) stop the activity of the organ through which
conscience manifests itself, as a man by covering
his eyes hides from himself what he does not wish
to see.

II

The cause of the world-wide consumption of
hashish, opium, wine, and tobacco, lies not in the
taste, nor in any pleasure, recreation, or mirth
they afford, but simply in man's need to hide from
himself the demands of conscience.

I was going along the street one day, and passing
some cabmen who were talking, I heard one of
them say: 'Of course when a man's sober he's
ashamed to do it!'

When a man is sober he is ashamed of what
seems all right when he is drunk. In these words
we have the essential underlying cause prompting
men to resort to stupefiers. People resort to them
either to escape feeling ashamed after having done
something contrary to their consciences, or to
bring themselves beforehand into a state in which
they can commit actions contrary to conscience,
but to which their animal nature prompts them.

A man when sober is ashamed to go after a
prostitute, ashamed to steal, ashamed to kill. A
drunken man is ashamed of none of these things,

72 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
and therefore if a man wishes to do something
his conscience condemns he stupefies himself.

I remember being struck by the evidence of a
man-cook who was tried for murdering a relation
of mine, an old lady in whose service he lived.
He related that when he had sent away his para-
mour, the servant-girl, and the time had come to
act, he wished to go into the bedroom with a knife,
but felt that while sober he could not commit the
deed he had planned . . . 'when a man's sober
he's ashamed.' He turned back, drank two
tumblers of vodka he had prepared beforehand,
and only then felt himself ready, and committed
the crime.

Nine-tenths of the crimes are committed in that
way: 'Drink to keep up your courage.'

Half the women who fall do so under the influ-
ence of wine. Nearly all visits to disorderly houses
are paid by men who are intoxicated. People know
this capacity of wine to stifle the voice of conscience,
and intentionally use it for that purpose.

Not only do people stupefy themselves to stifle
their own consciences, but, knowing how wine acts,
they intentionally stupefy others when they wish
to make them commit actions contrary to con-
science— that is, they arrange to stupefy people in
order to deprive them of conscience. In war,
soldiers are usually intoxicated before a hand-to-
hand fight. All the French soldiers in the assaults
on Sevastopol were drunk.

When a fortified place has been captured but
the soldiers do not sack it and slay the defenceless
old men and children, orders are often given to
make them drunk and then they do what is
expected of them.1

1 See the allusion to Sk6belev's conduct at Geok-Tepe on
the last page of Tales of Army Life. — A. M.

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 73

Everyone knows people who have taken to drink
in consequence of some wrong-doing that has
tormented their conscience. Anyone can notice
that those who lead immoral lives are more at-
tracted than others by stupefying substances.
Bands of robbers or thieves, and prostitutes, cannot
live without intoxicants.

Everyone knows and admits that the use of
stupefying substances is a consequence of the pangs
of conscience, and that in certain immoral ways
of life stupefying substances are employed to stifle
conscience. Everyone knows and admits also that
the use of stupefiers does stifle conscience: that a
drunken man is capable of deeds of which when
sober he would not think for a moment. Everyone
agrees to this, but strange to say when the use of
stupefiers does not result in such deeds as thefts,
murders, violations, and so forth — when stupefiers
are taken not after some terrible crimes, but by
men following professions which wre do not consider
criminal, and when the substances are consumed
not in large quantities at once but continually in
moderate doses — then (for some reason) it is
assumed that stupefying substances have no ten-
dency to stifle conscience.

Thus it is supposed that a well-to-do Russian's
glass of vodka before each meal and tumbler of
wine with the meal, or a Frenchman's absinthe,
or an Englishman's port wine and porter, or a
German's lager-beer, or a well-to-do Chinaman's
moderate dose of opium, and the smoking of
tobacco with them — is done only for pleasure and has
no effect whatever on these people's consciences.

It is supposed that if after this customary stupe-
faction no crime is committed — no theft or
murder, but only customary bad and stupid actions
— then these actions have occurred of themselves

74 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
and are not evoked by the stupefaction. It is sup-
posed that if these people have not committed
offences against the criminal law they have no
need to stifle the voice of conscience, and that the
life led by people who habitually stupefy themselves
is quite a good life, and would be precisely the same
if they did not stupefy themselves. It is supposed
that the constant use of stupefiers does not in the
least darken their consciences.

Though everybody knows by experience that a
man's frame of mind is altered by the use of wine
or tobacco, that he is not ashamed of things which
but for the stimulant he would be ashamed of,
that after each twinge of conscience, however
slight, he is inclined to have recourse to some
stupefier, and that under the influence of stupefiers
it is difficult to reflect on his life and position, and
that the constant and regular use of stupefiers pro-
duces the same physiological effect as its occasional
immoderate use does — yet in spite of all this it
seems to men who drink and smoke moderately
that they use stupefiers not at all to stifle conscience,
but only for the flavour or for pleasure.

But one need only think of the matter seriously
and impartially — not trying to excuse oneself — to
understand, first, that if the use of stupefiers in
large occasional doses stifles man's conscience,
their regular use must have a like effect (always
first intensifying and then dulling the activity of
the brain) whether they are taken in large or small
doses. Secondly, that all stupefiers have the
quality of stifling conscience, and have this always
— both when under their influence murders, rob-
beries, and violations are committed, and when
under their influence words are spoken which
would not have been spoken, or things are thought
and felt which but for them would not have been

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 75

thought and felt; and, thirdly, that if the use of
stupefiers is needed to pacify and stifle the con-
sciences of thieves, robbers, and prostitutes, it is
also wanted by people engaged in occupations
condemned by their own consciences, even though
these occupations may be considered proper and
honourable by other people.

In a word, it is impossible to avoid understanding
that the use of stupefiers, in large or small amounts,
occasionally or regularly, in the higher or lower
circles of society, is evoked by one and the same
cause, the need to stifle the voice of conscience in
order not to be aware of the discord existing between
one's way of life and the demands of one's conscience.

Ill

In that alone lies the reason of the widespread
use of all stupefying substances, and among the
rest of tobacco — probably the most generally used
and most harmful.

It is supposed that tobacco cheers one up, clears
the thoughts, and attracts one merely like any other
habit — without at all producing the deadening of
conscience produced by wine. But you need only
observe attentively the conditions under which a
special desire to smoke arises, and you will be
convinced that stupefying with tobacco acts on
the conscience as wine does, and that people con-
sciously have recourse to this method of stupe-
faction just when they require it for that purpose.
If tobacco merely cleared the thoughts and cheered
one up there would not be such a passionate
craving for it, a craving showing itself just on
certain definite occasions. People would not say
that they would rather go without bread than
without tobacco, and would not often actually
prefer tobacco to food.

76 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?

That man-cook who murdered his mistress said
that when he entered the bedroom and had gashed
her throat with his knife and she had fallen with
a rattle in her throat and the blood had gushed
out in a torrent — he lost his courage. 'I could not
finish her off,5 he said, 'but I went back from the
bedroom to the sitting-room and sat down there
and smoked a cigarette.' Only after stupefying
himself with tobacco was he able to return to the
bedroom, finish cutting the old lady's throat, and
begin examining her things.

Evidently the desire to smoke at that moment
was evoked in him, not by a wish to clear his
thoughts or be merry, but by the need to stifle
something that prevented him from completing
what he had planned to do.

Any smoker may detect in himself the same
definite desire to stupefy himself with tobacco at
certain specially difficult moments. I look back
at the days when I used to smoke : when was it that
I felt a special need of tobacco? It was always at
moments when I did not wish to remember certain
things that presented themselves to my recollection,
when I wished to forget — not to think. I sit by
myself doing nothing and know I ought to set to
work, but I don't feel' inclined to, so I smoke and
go on pitting. I have promised to be at someone's
hpuse by five o'clock, but I have stayed too long
somewhere ,else. I remember that I have missed
the "appointment, but I do not like to remember it,
so I smoke. I get vexed arid say unpleasant things
to someone, and know I atn doing wrong and see
that « I ought to stop, but I want to give vent to
my irritability — so I smoke and continue to be
irritable. r I play at cards and lose more than I
intended to risk — so I smoke. I have placed myself
in an awkward position, have acted badly, have

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 77

made a mistake, and ought to acknowledge the
mess I am in and thus escape from it, but I do not
like to acknowledge it, so I accuse others — and
smoke. I write something and am not quite satisfied
with what I have written. I ought to abandon it,
but I wish to finish what I have planned to do —
so I smoke. I dispute, and see that my opponent
and I do not understand and cannot understand
one another, but I wish to express my opinion, so
I continue to talk — and I smoke.

What distinguishes tobacco from most other
stupefiers, besides the ease with which one can
stupefy oneself with it and its apparent harmless-
ness, is its portability and the possibility of applying
it to meet small, isolated occurrences that disturb
one. Not to mention that the use of opium, wine,
and hashish involves the use of certain appliances
not always at hand, while one can always carry
tobacco and paper with one; and that the opium-
smoker and the drunkard evoke horror while a
tobacco-smoker does not seem at all repulsive —
the advantage of tobacco over other stupefiers is,
that the stupefaction of opium, hashish, or wine
extends to all the scnsations^imd' ilLLncccived or
produced during a cer
period of time — whjl
tobacco can be directs
You wish to do what!
a cigarette and
enable you to do
then you are all
speak clearly; or
should not — again
unpleasant consciousrll
action is obliterated, an8
with other things and for

But apart from individual cases Hf which every

78 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
smoker has recourse to smoking, not to satisfy a
habit or while away time but as a means of stifling
his conscience with reference to acts he is about
to commit or has already committed, is it not quite
evident that there is a strict and definite relation
between men's way of life and their passion for
smoking ?

When do lads begin to smoke? Usually when
they lose their childish innocence. How is it that
smokers can abandon smoking when they come
among more moral conditions of life, and again
start smoking as soon as they fall among a depraved
set? Why do gamblers almost all smoke? Why
among women do those who lead a regular life
smoke least? Why do prostitutes and madmen all
smoke? Habit is habit, but evidently smoking
stands in some definite connexion with the craving
to stifle conscience, and achieves the end required
of it.

One may observe in the case of almost every
smoker to what an extent smoking drowns the
voice of conscience. Every smoker when yielding
to his desire forgets, or sets at naught, the very first
demands of social life — demands he expects others
to observe, and which he observes in all other cases
until his conscience is stifled by tobacco. Everyone
of average education considers it inadmissible, ill-
bred, and inhumane to infringe the peace, com-
fort, and still more the health of others for his
own pleasure. No one would allow himself to wet
a room in which people are sitting, or to make a
noise, shout, let in cold, hot, or ill-smelling air,
or commit acts that incommode or harm others.
But out of a thousand smokers not one will shrink
from producing unwholesome smoke in a room
where the air is breathed by non-smoking women
and children.

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 79

If smokers do usually say to those present : 'You
don't object?' everyone knows that the customary
answer is: 'Not at all' (although it cannot be
pleasant to a non-smoker to breathe tainted air, and
to find etinidng cigar-ends in glasses and cups or
on plates and candlesticks, or even in ashpans).1
But even if non-smoking adults did not object to
tobacco-smoke, it could not be pleasant or good
for the children whose consent no one asks. Yet
people who are honourable and humane in all
other respects smoke in the presence of children
at dinner in small rooms, vitiating the air with
tobacco-smoke, \\ ithout feeling the slightest twinge
of conscience.

It is usually said (and I used to say) that smoking
facilitates mental work. And that is undoubtedly
true if one considers only the quantity of one's
mental output. To a man who smokes, and who
consequently ceases strictly to appraise and weigh
his thoughts, it seems as if he suddenly had many
thoughts. But this is not because he really has
many thoughts, but only because he has lost control
of his thoughts.

When a man works he is always conscious of two
beings in himself: the one works, the other ap-
praises the work. The stricter the appraisement the
slower and the better is the work; and vice versa,
when the appraiser is under the influence of some-
thing that stupefies him, more work gets done, but
its quality is poorer.

'If I do not smoke I cannot write. I cannot get
on; I begin and cannot continue,' is what is usually
said, and what I used to say. What does it really

1 In the matters alluded to the Russian customs are worse
than the English, partly perhaps because in Russia the smell
of stale tobacco in the rooms is less offensive than in England
owing to a drier climate. — A. M.

8o WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
mean? It means either that you have nothing to
write, or that what you wish to write has not yet
matured in your consciousness but is only beginning
dimly to present itself to you, and the appraising
critic within, when not stupefied with tobacco, tells
you so. If you did not smoke you would either
abandon what you have begun, or you would wait
until your thought has cleared itself in your mind ;
you would try to penetrate into what presents itself
dimly to you, would consider the objections that
offer themselves, and would turn all your attention
to the elucidation of the thought. But you smoke,
the critic within you is stupefied, and the hindrance
to your work is removed. What seemed insignificant
to you when not inebriated by tobacco, again seems
important; what seemed obscure no longer seems
so; the objections that presented themselves vanish
and you continue to write, and write much and
rapidly.

IV

But can such a small — such a trifling — alteration
as the slight intoxication produced by the moderate
use of wine or tobacco produce important conse-
quences? 'If a man smokes opium or hashish, or
intoxicates himself with wine till he falls down and
loses his senses, of course the consequences may be
very serious; but it surely cannot have any serious
consequences if a man merely comes slightly under
the influence of hops or tobacco,' is what is usually
said. It seems to people that a slight stupefaction,
a little darkening of the judgement, cannot have
any important influence. But to think so is like
supposing that it may harm a watch to be struck
against a stone, but that a little dirt introduced
into it cannot be harmful.

Remember, however, that the chief work actuat-

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES > 81
ing man's whole life is not done by his hands, his
feet, or his back, but by his consciousness. Before
a man can do anything with his feet or hands, a
certain alteration has first to take place in his
consciousness. And this alteration defines all the
subsequent movements of the man. Yet these altera-
' tions are always minute and almost imperceptible.

Bryullov1 one day corrected a pupil's study. The
pupil, having glanced at the altered dra\\ing, ex-
claimed: 'Why, you only touched it a tiny bit, but
it is quite another thing.' Bryullov replied: 'Art
begins where the tiny bit begins.'

That saying is strikingly true not only of art but
of all life. One may say that true life begins where
the tiny bit begins — where what seem to us minute
and infinitely small alterations take place. True
life is not lived where great external changes take
place — where people move about, clash, fight, and
slay one another — it is lived only where these tim ,
tiny, infinitesimally small changes occur.

Raskolnikov2 did not live his true life when he
murdered the old woman or her sister. When
murdering the old woman herself, and still more
when murdering her sister, he did not live his
true life, but acted like a machine, doing what he
could not help doing — discharging the cartridge
with which he had long been loaded. One old
woman was killed, another stood before him, the
axe was in his hand.

Raskolnikov lived his true life not when he met
the old woman's sister, but at the time when he had
not yet killed any old woman, nor entered a
stranger's lodging with intent to kill, nor held the
axe in his hand, nor had the loop in his overcoat
by which the axe hung. He lived his true life when

1 K. P. Bryull6v, a celebrated Russian painter (i 799-1852).
a The hero of Dostoevski's novel, Crime and Punishment.

82 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES*
he was lying on the sofa in his room, deliberating
not at all about the old woman, nor even as to
whether it is or is not permissible at the will of
one man to wipe from the face of the earth another,
unnecessary and harmful, man, but whether he
ought to live in Petersburg or not, whether he
ought to accept money from his mother ®r not,
and on other questions not at all relating to the
old woman. And then— in that region quite inde-
pendent of animal activities — the question whether
he would or would not kill the old woman was
decided. That question was decided — not when,
having killed one old woman, he stood before
another, axe in hand — but when he was doing
nothing and was only thinking, when only his
consciousness was active : and in that consciousness
tiny, tiny alterations were taking place. It is at
such times that one needs the greatest clearness
to decide correctly the questions that have arisen,
and it is just then that one glass of beer, or one
cigarette, may prevent the solution of the question,
may postpone the decision, stifle the voice of con-
science and prompt a decision of the question in
favour of the lower, animal nature — as was the
case with Raskolnikov.

Tiny, tiny alterations — but on them depend the
most immense and terrible consequences. Many
material changes may result from what happens
when a man has taken a decision and begun to
act: houses, riches, and people's bodies may perish,
but nothing more important can happen than what
was hidden in the man's consciousness. The limits
of what can happen are set by consciousness.

And boundless results of unimaginable impor-
tance may follow from most minute alterations
occurring in the domain of consciousness.

Do not let it be supposed that what I am saying

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 83

has anything to do with the question of free will
or determinism. Discussion on that question is
superfluous for my purpose, or for any other for
that matter. Without deciding the question whether
a man can, or cannot, act as he wishes (a question
in my opinion not correctly stated), I am merely
saying that since human activity is conditioned by
infinitesimal alterations in consciousness, it follows
(no matter whether we admit the existence of free
will or not) that we must pay particular attention
to the condition in which these minute alterations
take place, just as one must be specially attentive
to the condition of scales on which other things
are to be weighed. We must, as far as it depends
on us, try to put ourselves and others in conditions
which will not disturb the clearness and delicacy
of thought necessary for the correct working
of conscience, and must not act in the con-
trary manner — trying to hinder and confuse the
work of conscience by the use of stupefying sub-
stances.

For man is a spiritual as well as an animal being.
He may be moved by things that influence his
spiritual nature, or by things that influence his
animal nature, as a clock may be moved by its
hands or by its main wheel. And just as it is best
to regulate the movement of a clock by means of
its inner mechanism, so a man — oneself or another
— is best regulated by means of his consciousness.
And as with a clock one has to take special care of
that part by means of which one can best move the
inner mechanism, so with a man one must take
special care of the cleanness and clearness of
consciousness which is the thing that best moves
the whole man. To doubt this is impossible ;• every-
one knows it. But a need to deceive oneself arises.
People are not as anxious that consciousness should

84 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
work correctly as they are that it should seem to
them that what they are doing is right, and they
deliberately make use of substances that disturb the
proper working of their consciousness.

V

People drink and smoke, not casually, not from
dulness, not to cheer themselves up, not because it
is pleasant, but in order to drown the voice of
conscience in themselves. And in that case, how
terrible must be the consequences! Think what
a building would be like erected by people who
did not use a straight plumb-rule to get the walls
perpendicular, nor right-angled squares to get the
corners correct, but used a soft rule which would
bend to suit all irregularities in the walls, and a
square that expanded to fit any angle, acute or
obtuse.

Yet, thanks to self-stupefaction, that is just what
is being done in life. Life does not accord with
conscience, so conscience is made to bend to life.

This is done in the life of individuals, and it is
done in the life of humanity as a whole, which
consists of the lives of individuals.

To grasp the full significance of such stupefying
of one's consciousness, let each one carefully recall
the spiritual conditions he has passed through at
each period of his life. Everyone will find that at
each period of his life certain moral questions con-
fronted him which he ought to solve, and on the
solution of which the whole welfare of his life
depended. For the solution of these questions great
concentration of attention was needful. Such con-
centration of attention is a labour. In every labour,
especially at the beginning, there is a time when
the work seems difficult and painful, and when
human weakness prompts a desire to abandon it.

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 85
Physical work seems painful at first; mental work
still more so. As Lcssing says: people are inclined
to cease to think at the point at which thought
begins to be difficult; but it is just there, I would
add, that thinking begins to be fruitful. A man
feels that to decide the questions confronting him
"needs labour — often painful labour — and he wishes
to evade this. If he had no means of stupefying his
faculties he could not expel from his consciousness
the questions that confront him, and the necessity
of solving them would be forced upon him. But
man finds that there exists a means to drive off
these questions whenever they present themselves
— and he uses it. As soon as the questions awaiting
solution begin to torment him he has recourse to
these means, and avoids the disquietude evoked
by the troublesome questions. Consciousness ceases
to demand their solution, and the unsolved ques-
tions remain unsolved till his next period of en-
lightenment. But when that period comes the
same thing is repeated, and the man goes on for
months, years, or even for his whole life, standing
before those same moral questions and not moving
a step towards their solution. Yet it is in the
solution of moral questions that life's whole move-
ment consists.

What occurs is as if a man who needs to see to
the bottom of some muddy water to obtain a
precious pearl, but who dislikes entering the water,
should stir it up each time it begins to settle and
become clear. Many a man continues to stupefy
himself all his life long, and remains immovable
at the same once-accepted, obscure, self-contra-
dictory view of life — pressing, as each period of
enlightenment approaches, ever at one and the
same wall against which he pressed ten or twenty
years ago, and which he cannot break through

86 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?
because he intentionally blunts that sharp point
of thought which alone could pierce it.

Let each man remember himself as he has been
during the years of his drinking or smoking, and
let him test the matter in his experience of other
people, and everyone will see a definite constant
line dividing those who are addicted to stupefiers
from those who are free from them. The more a
man stupefies himself the more he is morally
immovable.

VI

Terrible, as they are described to us, are the
consequences of opium and hashish on individuals;
terrible, as we know them, are the consequences
of alcohol to flagrant drunkards ; but incomparably
more terrible to our whole society are the conse-
quences of what is considered the harmless, moder-
ate use of spirits, wine, beer, and tobacco, to which
the majority of men, and especially our so-called
cultured classes, are addicted.

The consequences must naturally be terrible,
admitting the fact, which must be admitted, that
the guiding activities of society — political, official,
scientific, literary, and artistic — are carried on for
the most part by people in an abnormal state: by
people who are drunk.

It is generally supposed that a man who, like
most people of our well-to-do classes, takes alco-
holic drink almost every time he eats, is in a per-
fectly normal and sober condition next day, during
working hours. But this is quite an error. A man
who drank a bottle of wine, a glass of spirits, or
two glasses of ale, yesterday, is now in the usual
state of drowsiness or depression which follows
excitement, and is therefore in a condition of
mental prostration, which is increased by smoking.

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 87
For a man who habitually smokes and drinks in
moderation, to bring his brain into a normal condi-
tion would require at least a week or more of
abstinence from wine and tobacco. But that hardly
ever occurs.1

So that most of what goes on among us, whether
'done by people who rule and teach others, or by
those who are ruled and taught, is done when the
doers are not sober.

And let not this be taken as a joke or an exaggera-
tion. The confusion, and above all the imbecility,
of our lives, arises chiefly from the constant state of
intoxication in which most people live. Could
people who are not drunk possibly do all that is
being done around us — from building the Eiffel
Tower to accepting military service?

Without any need whatever, a company is
formed, capital collected, men labour, make cal-
culations, and draw plans; millions of working
days and thousands of tons of iron are spent to

1 But how is it that people who do not drink or smoke are
often morally on an incomparably lower plane than others
who drink and smoke? And why do people who drink and
smoke often manifest very high qualities both mentally and
morally?

The answer is, first, that we do not know the height that
those who drink and smoke would have attained had they not
drunk and smoked. And secondly, from the fact that morally
gifted people achieve great things in spite of the deteriorating
effect of stupefying substances, we can but conclude that they
would have produced yet greater things had they not
stupefied themselves. It is very probable, as a friend remarked
to me, that Kant's works would not have been written in
such a curious and bad style had he not smoked so much.
Lastly, the lower a man's mental and moral plane the less
does he feel the discord between his conscience and his life,
and therefore the less does he feel a craving to stupefy him-
self; and on the other hand a parallel reason cxplainr. why
the most sensitive natures — those which immediately and
morbidly feel the discord between life and conscience — sex
often indulge in narcotics and perish by them. — L. T.

88 WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES?

build a tower; and millions of people consider it
their duty to climb up it, stop awhile on it, and
then climb down again; and the building and
visiting of this tower evoke no other reflection than
a wish and intention to build other towers, in other
places, still bigger. Could sober people act like
that ? Or take another case. For dozens of years
past all the European peoples have been busy
devising the very best ways of killing people, and
teaching as many young men as possible, as soon
as they reach manhood, how to murder. Everyone
knows that there can be no invasion by barbarians,
but that these preparations made by the different
civilized and Christian nations are directed against
one another; everyone knows that this is burden-
some, painful, inconvenient, ruinous, immoral,
impious, and irrational — but everyone continues
to prepare for mutual murder. Some devise
political combinations to decide who is to kill
whom and with what allies, others direct those who
are being taught to murder, and others again yield
— against their will, against their conscience,
against their reason — to these preparations for
murder. Could sober people do these things ? Only
drunkards who never reach a state of sobriety could
do them and live on in the horrible state of discord
between life and conscience in which, not only in
this but in all other respects, the people of our
society are now living.

Never before, I suppose, have people lived with
the demands of their conscience so evidently in
contradiction to their actions.

Humanity to-day has as it were stuck fast. It
is as though some external cause hindered it from
occupying a position in natural accord with its
perceptions. And the cause — if not the only one,
then certainly the greatest— is this physical condi-

WHY DO MEN STUPEFY THEMSELVES? 89
tion of stupefaction induced by wine and tobacco
to which the great majority of people in our society
reduce themselves.

Emancipation from this teirible evil will be an
epoch in the life of humanity; and that epoch seems
to be at hand. The evil is recognized. An altera-
tion has already taken place in our perception
concerning the use of stupefying substances. People
have understood the terrible harm of these things
and are beginning to point them out, and this
almost unnoticed alteration in perception \\ill
inevitably bring about the emancipation of men
from the use of stupefying things — will enable them
to open their eyes to the demands of their con-
sciences, and they will begin to order their lives in
accord with their perceptions.

And this seems to be already beginning. But
as always it is beginning among the upper classes
only after all the lower classes have already been
infected.

[June 10, o.s., 1890.]

The above essay was written by Leo Tolstoy as a
preface to a book on Drunkenness written by my brother-
in-law, Dr. P. S. Alexeyev. — A. M.

THE FIRST STEP
I

IF a man is working in order to accomplish what-
ever he has in hand and not merely making a
pretence of work, his actions will necessarily follow
one another in a certain sequence determined by
the nature of the work. If he postpones to a later
time what from the nature of the work should be
done first, or if he altogether omits some essential
part, he is certainly not working seriously but only
pretending. This rule holds unalterably true
whether the work be physical or not. As a man
seriously wishing to bake bread first kneads the
flour and then heats the brick-oven, sweeps out
the ashes, and so on, so also a man seriously
wishing to lead a good life adopts a certain order
of succession in the attainment of the necessary
qualities.

This rule is especially important in regard to
right living; for whereas in the case of physical
work, such as making bread, it is easy to discover
by the result whether a man is seriously engaged
in work or only pretending, no such verification is
possible in regard to goodness of life. If without
kneading the dough or heating the oven people
merely pretend to make bread — as they do in the
theatre — then the absence of bread makes it
obvious that they were only pretending; but when
a man pretends to be leading a good life we have
no such direct indications that he is not striving
seriously but only pretending, for not only are the
results of a good life not always evident and pal-
pable to those around, but very often such results
even appear to them harmful. Respect for a man's
activity and the acknowledgement of its utility and

THE FIRST STEP 91

pleasantness by his contemporaries, furnish no
proof of the real goodness of his life.

Therefore, to distinguish the reality from the
mere appearance of a good life, the indication
given by a regular order of succession in the acquire-
ment of the essential qualities is especially valuable.
And this indication is valuable, not so much to
enable us to discover the seriousness of other men's
strivings after goodness as to test this sincerity in
ourselves, for in this respect we are liable to deceive
ourselves even more than we deceive others.

A correct order of succession in the attainment
of virtues is an indispensable condition of advance
towards a good life, and consequently the teachers
of mankind have always prescribed a certain in-
variable order for their attainment.

All moral teachings set up that ladder which, as
the Chinese wisdom has it, reaches from earth to
heaven, and the ascent of which can only be ac-
complished by starting from the lowest step. As
in the teaching of the Brahmins, Buddhists, Con-
fucians, so also in the teaching of the Greek sages,
steps were fixed, and a superior step could not
be attained without the lower one having been
previously taken. All the moral teachers of man-
kind, religious and non-religious alike, have ad-
mitted the necessity of a definite order of succession
in the attainment of the qualities essential to a
righteous life. The necessity for this sequence lies
in the very essence of things, and therefore, it
would seem, ought to be recognized by everyone.

But, strange to say, from the time Church-
Christianity spread widely, the consciousness of
this necessary order appears to have been more
and more lost, and is now retained only among
ascetics and monks. Among worldly Christians it
is taken for granted that the higher virtues may

92 THE FIRST STEP

be attained not only in the absence of the lower
ones, which are a necessary condition of the higher,
but even in company with the greatest vices; and
consequently the very conception of what con-
stitutes a good life has reached a state of the greatest
confusion in the minds of the majority of worldly
people to-day.

II

In our times people have quite lost conscious-
ness of the necessity of a sequence in the qualities
a man must have to enable him to live a good life,
and in consequence have lost the very conception
of what constitutes a good life. This it seems to
me has come about in the following way.

When Christianity replaced paganism it put
forth moral demands superior to the heathen ones,
and at the same time (as was also the case with
pagan morality) it necessarily laid down an in-
dispensable order for the attainment of virtues —
certain steps to the attainment of a righteous life.

Plato's virtues, beginning with self-control, ad-
vanced through courage and wisdom to justice;
the Christian virtues, commencing with self-
renunciation, rise, through devotion to the will of
God, to love.

Those who accepted Christianity seriously and
strove to live righteous Christian lives, understood
Christianity in this way, and always began living
rightly by renouncing their lusts; which renuncia-
tion included the self-control of the pagans.

But let it not be supposed that Christianity in
this matter was only echoing the teachings of
paganism; let me not be accused of degrading
Christianity from its lofty place to the level of
heathenism. Such an accusation would be unjust,
for I regard the Christian teaching as the highest

THE FIRST STEP 93

the world has known, and as quite different from
heathenism. Christian teaching replaced pagan
teaching simply because the former was different
from and superior to the latter. But both Christian
and pagan teaching alike lead men toward truth
and goodness; and as these are always the same,
the way to them must also be the same, and the
first steps on this way must inevitably be the same
for Christian as for heathen.

The difference between the Christian and pagan
teaching of goodness lies in this : that the heathen
teaching is one of final perfection, while the
Christian is one of infinite perfecting. Every
heathen, non-Christian, teaching sets before men
a model of final perfection; but the Christian
teaching sets before them a model of infinite per-
fection. Plato, for instance, makes justice the
model of perfection, whereas Christ's model is
the infinite perfection of love. ''Be ye perfect, even
as your Father in heaven is perfect* In this lies the
difference, and from this results the different
relation of pagan and Christian teaching towards
different grades of virtue. According to the former
the attainment of the highest virtue was possible,
and each step towards this attainment had its com-
parative merit — the higher the step the greater the
merit; so that from the pagan point of view men
may be divided into moral and immoral, into more
or less immoral — whereas according to the Chris-
tian teaching, which sets up the ideal of infinite
perfection, this division is impossible. There can
be neither higher nor lower grades. In the Chris-
tian teaching, which shows the infinity of perfec-
tion, all steps are equal in relation to the infinite
ideal.

Among the pagans the plane of virtue attained
by a man constituted his merit; in Christianity

94 THE FIRST STEP

merit consists only in the process of attaining, in
the greater or lesser speed of attainment. From the
pagan point of view a man who possessed the virtue
of reasonableness stood morally higher than one
deficient in that virtue, a man who in addition to
reasonableness possessed courage stood higher still,
a man who to reasonableness and courage added
justice stood yet higher. But one Christian cannot
be regarded as morally either higher or lower than
another. A man is more or less of a Christian only
in proportion to the speed with which he advances
towards infinite perfection, irrespective of the stage
he may have reached at a given moment. Hence
the stationary righteousness of the Pharisee was
worth less than the progress of the repentant thief
on the cross.

Such is the difference between the Christian and
the pagan teachings. Consequently the stages of
virtue, as for instance self-control and courage,
which in paganism constitute merit, constitute none
whatever in Christianity. In this respect the
teachings differ. But with regard to the fact that
there can be no advance towards virtue, towards
perfection, except by mounting the lowest steps,
paganism and Christianity are alike : here there can
be no difference.

The Christian, like the pagan, must commence
the work of perfecting himself from the beginning —
at the same step at which the heathen begins it,
namely, self-control; just as a man who wishes to
ascend a flight of stairs cannot avoid beginning
at the first step. The only difference is that for the
pagan, self-control itself constitutes a virtue; where-
as for the Christian it is only part of that self-
abnegation which is itself but an indispensable
condition of all aspiration after perfection. There-
fore the manifestation of true Christianity could not

THE FIRST STEP 95

but follow the same path that had been indicated
and followed by paganism.

But not all men have understood Christianity as
an aspiration towards the perfection of the heavenly
Father. The majority of people have regarded it
as a teaching about salvation — that is, deliverance
from sin by grace transmitted through the Church
according to the Catholics and Greek Orthodox;
by faith in the Redemption according to the
Protestants, the Reformed Church, and the Cal-
vinists; or by means of the two combined according
to others.

And it is precisely this teaching that has
destroyed the sincerity and seriousness of men's
relation to the moral teaching of Christianity.
However much the representatives of these faiths
may preach that these means of salvation do not
hinder man in his aspiration after a righteous life
but on the contrary contribute towards it — still,
from certain assertions certain deductions neces-
sarily follow, and no arguments can prevent men
from making these deductions when once they have
accepted the assertions from which they flow. If
a man believes that he can be saved through grace
transmitted by the Church, or through the sacrifice
of the Redemption, it is natural for him to think
that efforts of his own to live a right life are un-
necessary— the more so when he is told that even
the hope that his efforts will make him better is a
sin. Consequently a man who believes that there are
means other than personal effort by which he may
escape sin or its results, cannot strive with the
same energy and seriousness as the man who knows
no other means. And not striving with perfect
seriousness, and knowing of other means besides
personal effort, a man will inevitably neglect the
unalterable order of succession for the attainment

q6 THE FIRST STEP

of the good qualities necessary to a good life. And
this has happened with the majority of those who
profess Christianity.

Ill

The doctrine that personal effort is not necessary
for the attainment of spiritual perfection by man,
but that there are other means of acquiring it,
caused a relaxation of efforts to live a good life
and a neglect of the consecutiveness indispensable
for such a life.

The great mass of those who accepted Chris-
tianity, accepting it only externally, took advantage
of the substitution of Christianity for paganism to
free themselves from the demands of the heathen
virtues — no longer imposed on them as Christians
— and to free themselves from all conflict with their
animal nature.

The same thing happens with those who cease
to believe in the teaching of the Church. They are
like the believers just mentioned, only — instead of
grace bestowed by the Church or through Re-
demption— they put forward some imaginary good
work approved of by the majority of men, such
as the service of science, art, or humanity; and
in the name of this imaginary good work they
liberate themselves from the consecutive attain-
ment of the qualities necessary for a good life, and
are satisfied with pretending, like men on the
stage, to live a good life.

Those who fell away from paganism without
embracing Christianity in its true significance,
began to preach love for God and man apart from
self-renunciation, and justice without self-control;
that is to say, they preached the higher virtues
while omitting the lower ones: they preached not
the virtues themselves, but their semblance.

THE FIRST STEP $7

Some preach love of God and man without self-
renunciation, and others preach humaneness — the
service of humanity — without self-control. And as
this teaching, while pretending to introduce man
into higher moral regions, encourages his animal
nature by liberating him from the most elementary
demands of morality — long ago acknowledged by
the heathens and not only not rejected but
strengthened by true Christianity — it was readily
accepted both by believers and unbelievers.

Only the other day the Pope's Encyclical1 on
Socialism was published, in which, after a pre-
tended refutation of the Socialist view of the
wrongfulness of private property, it wis plainly
said: 'No one is commanded to distribute to others that
which is required for his own necessities find those of his
household ; nor even to give away what is reasonably re-
quired to keep up becomingly his condition in life ; for no
one ought to live unbecomingly.' (This is from St.
Thomas Aquinas, who says, Nullus enim mcon-
renienter vivere debet.) 'But when necessity has been
fairly supplied, and one* s position fairly considered, it is
a duty to give to the indigent out of that which is over.
That which remaincth give alms.'

Thus now preaches the head of the most wide-
spread Church. Thus have preached all the
Church teachers who considered salvation by
works as insufficient. And together with this
teaching of selfishness, which prescribes that you
shall give to your neighbours only what you do not
want yourself, they preach love, and recall with
pathos Paul's celebrated words about love in the
thirteenth chapter of the First Epistle to the
Corinthians.

1 This refers to the Encyclical of Pope Leo XIII. In the
passage quoted the official English translation of the Ency-
clical has been followed. See the Tablet, 1891.— A. M.

459 »

c# THE FIRST STEP

Notwithstanding that the Gospels overflow with
demands for self-renunciation, with indications that
self-renunciation is the first condition of Christian
perfection; notwithstanding such clear expressions
as: 'Whosoever will not take up his cross . . .'
'Whosoever hath not forsaken father and mother
. . .' 'Whosoever shall lose his life . . .' — people
assure themselves and others that it is possible to
love men without renouncing that to which one is
accustomed, or even what one pleases to consider
becoming for oneself.

So speak the Church people; and Freethinkers
who reject not only the Church but also the
Christian teaching, think, speak, write, and act,
in just the same way. These men assure themselves
and others that they can serve mankind and lead
a good life without in the least diminishing their
needs and without overcoming their lusts.

Men have thrown aside the pagan sequence of
virtues ; but, not assimilating the Christian teaching
in its true significance, they have not accepted the
Christian sequence and are left quite without
guidance.

IV

In olden times, when there was no Christian
teaching, all the teachers of life, beginning with
Socrates, regarded self-control — cyKpdrcia or aw
</>poavvr) — as the first virtue of life; and it was
understood that every virtue must begin with and
pass through this one. It was clear that a man who
had no self-control, who had developed an im-
mense number of desires and had yielded himself
up to them, could not lead a good life. It was
evident that before a man could even think of dis-
interestedness and justice — to say nothing of
generosity or love — he must learn to exercise con-

THE FIRST STEP 99

trol over himself. According to our present ideas
nothing of the sort is necessary. We are convinced
that a man who has developed his desires to the
climax reached in our society, a man who cannot
live without satisfying the hundred unnecessary
habits that enslave him, can yet lead an altogether
moral and good life. Looked at from any point of
view: the lowest, utilitarian; the higher, pagan,
which demands justice; and especially the highest,
Christian, which demands love — it should surely
be clear to everyone that a man who uses for his
own pleasure (which he might easily forgo) the
labour, often the painful labour, of others, behaves
wrongly; and that this is the very first wrong he
must cease to commit if he wishes to live a good life.

From the utilitarian point of view such conduct
is bad, because as long as he forces others to work
for him a man is always in an unstable position ; he
accustoms himself to the satisfaction of his desires
and becomes enslaved by them, while those who
work for him do so with hatred and envy and only
await an opportunity to free themselves from the
necessity of so working. Consequently such a man
is always in danger of being left with deeply rooted
habits which create demands he cannot satisfy.

From the point of view of justice such conduct is
bad, because it is not well to employ for one's own
pleasure the labour of other men who themselves
cannot afford a hundredth part of the pleasures
enjoyed by him for whom they labour.

From the point of view of Christian love it can
hardly be necessary to prove that a man who loves
others will give them his own labour rather than
take the fruit of their labour from them for his own
pleasure.

But these demands of utility, justice, and love,
are altogether ignored by our modern society. With

i<x> THE FIRST STEP

us the effort to limit our desires is regarded as
neither the first nor even the last condition of a
good life, but as altogether unnecessary.

On the contrary, according to the prevailing and
most widely spread teaching of life to-day, the aug-
mentation of one's wants is regarded as a desirable
condition; as a sign of development, civilization,
culture, and perfection. So-called educated people
regard habits of comfort, that is, of effeminacy, as
not only harmless but even good, indicating a
certain moral elevation — as almost a virtue.

It is thought that the more the wants, and the
more refined these wants, the better.

This is shown very ckarly by the descriptive
poetry, and even more so by the novels, of the last
two centuries.

How are the heroes and heroines who represent
the ideals of virtue portrayed ?

In most cases the men who are meant to represent
something noble and lofty — from Childe Harold
down to the latest heroes of Feuillet, Trollope, or
Maupassant — are simply depraved sluggards, con-
suming in luxury the labour of thousands, and them-
selves doing nothing useful for anybody. The
heroines — the mistresses who in one way or an-
other afford more or less delight to these men — are
as idle as they, and are equally ready to consume
the labour of others by their luxury.

I do not refer to the representations of really
abstemious and industrious people one occasionally
meets with in literature. I am speaking of the
usual type that serves as an ideal to the masses : of
the character that the majority of men and women
are trying to resemble. I remember the difficulty
(inexplicable to me at the time) that I experienced
when I wrote novels, a difficulty with which I
contended and with which I know all novelists

THE FIRST STEP H>I

now contend who have even the dimmest concep-
tion of what constitutes real moral beauty — the
difficulty of portraying a type taken from the upper
classes as ideally good and kind, and at the same
time true to life. To be true to life, a description
of a man or woman of the upper, educated classes
must show him in his usual surroundings — that is,
in luxury, physical idleness, and demanding much.
From a moral point of view such a person is un-
doubtedly objectionable. But it is necessary to
represent this person in such a way that he may
appear attractive. And novelists try to do so. I
also tried. And, strange to say, such a representa-
tion, making an immoral fornicator and murderer
(duellist or soldier), an utterly useless, idly drifting,
fashionable buffoon, appear attractive, does not
require much art or effort. The readers of novels
are for the most part exactly such men, and
therefore readily believe that these Childe Harolds,
Onegins, Messieurs de Gamors,1 &c., are very
excellent people.

V

Clear proof that the men of our time really do
not admit pagan self-control and Christian self-
renunciation to be good and desirable qualities,
but on the contrary regard the augmentation of
wants as good and elevated, is to be found in the
education given to the vast majority of children
in our society. Not only are they not trained to
self-control, as among the pagans, or to the self-
renunciation proper to Christians, but they are
deliberately inoculated with habits of effeminacy,
physical idleness, and luxury.

On^gin is the hero of a famous Russian poem by Pushkin.
M. de Camors is the hero of a French novel by Octave
Fruillet.— A. M.

10* THE FIRST STEP

I have long wished to write a fairy-tale of this
kind: A woman, wishing to revenge herself on
one who has injured her, carries off her enemy's
child, and going to a sorcerer asks him to teach
her how she can most cruelly wreak her vengeance
on the stolen infant, the only child of her enemy.
The sorcerer bids her carry the child to a place
he indicates, and assures her that a most terrible
vengeance will result. The wicked woman follows
his advice; but, keeping an eye upon the child, is
astonished to see that it is found and adopted by a
wealthy, childless man. She goes to the sorcerer
and reproaches him, but he bids her wait. The
child grows up in luxury and effeminacy. The
woman is perplexed, but again the sorcerer bids
her wait. And at length the time comes when the
wicked woman is not only satisfied but has even
to pity her victim. He grows up in the effeminacy
and dissoluteness of wealth, and owing to his good
nature is ruined. Then begins a sequence of
physical sufferings, poverty, and humiliation, to
which he is especially sensitive and against \vhich
he knows not how to contend. Aspirations towards
a moral life — and the weakness of his effeminate
body accustomed to luxury and idleness; vain
struggles; lower and still lower decline; drunken-
ness to drown thought, then crime and insanity or
suicide.

And, indeed, one cannot regard without terror
the education of the children of the wealthy class
in our day. Only the cruellest foe could, one would
think, inoculate a child with those defects and vices
which are now instilled into him by his parents,
especially by mothers. One is awestruck at the
sight, and still more at the results of this, if only
one knows how to discern what is taking place in
the souls of the best of these children, so carefully

THE FIRST STEP 103

ruined by their parents. Habits of effeminacy are
instilled into them at a time when they do not yet
understand their moral significance. Not only is
the habit of temperance and self-control neglected,
but, contrary to the educational practice of Sparta
and of the ancient world in general, this quality
is altogether atrophied. Not only is man not
trained to work, and to all the qualities essential to
fruitful labour — concentration of mind, strenuous-
ness, endurance, enthusiasm for work, ability to
repair what is spoiled, familiarity with fatigue, joy
in attainment — but he is habituated to idleness and
to contempt for all the products of labour: is
taught to spoil, throw away, and again procure
for money anything he fancies, without a thought
of how things are made. Man is deprived of the
power of acquiring the primary virtue of reasonable-
ness, indispensable for the attainment of all the
others, and is let loose in a world where people
preach and praise the lofty virtues of justice, the
service of man, and love.

It is well if the youth be endowed with a morally
feeble and obtuse nature, which does not detect
the difference between make-believe and genuine
goodness of life, and is satisfied with the prevailing
mutual deception. If this be the case all goes
apparently well, and such a man will sometimes
quietly live on with his moral consciousness un-
awakened till death.

But it is not always thus, especially of late, now
that the consciousness of the immorality of such
life fills the air and penetrates the heart unsought.
Frequently, and ever more frequently, it happens
that there awakens a demand for real, unfeigned
morality; and then begin a painful inner struggle
and suffering which end but rarely in the triumph
of the moral sentiment.

104 THE FIRST STEP

A man feels that his life is bad, that he must
reform it from the very roots, and he tries to do so ;
but he is then attacked on all sides by those who
have passed through a similar struggle and have
been vanquished. They endeavour by every means
to convince him that this reform is quite unneces-
sary: that goodness does not at all depend upon
self-control and self-renunciation, that it is possible
while addicting himself to gluttony, personal adorn-
ment, physical idleness, and even fornication, to
be a perfectly good and useful man. And the
struggle in most cases terminates lamentably.
Either the man, overcome by his weakness, yields
to the general opinion, stifles the voice of conscience,
distorts his reason to justify himself, and continues
to lead the old dissipated life, assuring himself that
it is redeemed by faith in the Redemption or the
Sacraments, or by service to science, to the State,
or to art; or else he struggles, suffers, and finally
becomes insane or shoots himself.

It seldom happens, amid all the temptations that
surround him, that a man of our society under-
stands what was thousands of years ago, and still is,
an elementary truth for all reasonable people:
namely, that for the attainment of a good life it is
necessary first of all to cease to live an evil life ;
that for the attainment of the higher virtues it is
needful first of all to acquire the virtue of abstinence
or self-control as the pagans called it, or of self-
renunciation as Christianity has it, and therefore
it seldom happens that he succeeds in attaining this
primary virtue by gradual efforts.

VI

I have just been reading the letters of one of our
highly educated and advanced men of the eigh teen-
forties, the exile Ogaryev, to another yet more

THE FIRST STEP 105

highly educated and gifted man, Herzen. In these
letters Ogaryev gives expression to his sincere
thoughts and highest aspirations, and one cannot
fail to see that — as was natural to a young man — he
rather shows off before his friend. He talks of self-
perfecting, of sacred friendship, love, the service
of science, of humanity, and the like. And at the
same time he calmly writes that he often Irritates
the companion of his life by 'returning home in
an unsober state, or disappearing for many hours
with a fallen, but dear creature. . . .' as he ex-
presses it.

Evidently it never even occurred to this remark-
ably kind-hearted, talented, and well-educated
man that there was anything at all objectionable
in the fact that he, a married man awaiting the
confinement of his wife (in his next letter he writes
that his wife has given birth to a child), returned
home intoxicated and disappeared with dissolute
women. It did not enter his head that until he
had commenced the struggle and had at least to
some extent conquered his inclination to drunken-
ness and fornication, he could not think of friend-
ship and love and still less of serving anyone or
anything. But he not only did not struggle against
these vices — he evidently thought there was some-
thing very nice in them, and that they did not in
the least hinder the struggle for perfection; and
therefore instead of hiding them from the friend
in whose eyes he wishes to appear in a good light,
he exhibits them.

Thus it was half a century ago. I was contem-
porary with such men. I knew Ogaryev and Her-
zen themselves, and others of that stamp, and men
educated in the same traditions. There was a
remarkable absence of consistency in the lives of
all these men. Together with a sincere and ardent

106 THE FIRST STEP

wish for good there was an utter looseness of
personal desire, which they thought could not
hinder the living of a good life nor the performance
of good and even great deeds. They put unkneaded
loaves into a cold oven and believed that bread
would be baked. And then, when with advancing
years they began to notice that the bread did not
bake — i.e. that no good came of their lives — they
saw in this something peculiarly tragic.

And the tragedy of such lives is indeed terrible.
And this same tragedy apparent in the lives of
Herzen, Ogaryev, and others of their time, exists
to-day in the lives of very many so-called educated
people who hold the same views. A man desires
to lead a good life, but the consecutivencss which
is indispensable for this is lost in the society in
which he lives. The majority of men of the present
day, like Ogaryev, Herzen and others fifty years
ago, are persuaded that to lead an effeminate life,
to eat sweet and rich foods, to delight themselves
in every way and satisfy all their desires, does not
hinder them from living a good life. But as it is
evident that a good life in their case does not result,
they give themselves up to pessimism, and say,
'Such is the tragedy of human life.'

It is strange too that these people, who know that
the distribution of pleasures among men is unequal
and regard this inequality as an evil and wish to
correct it, yet do not cease to strive to augment
their own pleasures — that is, to augment inequality
in the distribution of pleasures. In acting thus,
these people are like men who being the first to
enter an orchard hasten to gather all the fruit they
can lay their hands on, and while professing a wish
to organize a more equal distribution of the fruit
of the orchard between themselves and later
comers, continue to pluck all they can reach.

THE FIRST STEP 107

VII

The delusion that men while addicting them-
selves to their desires and regarding this life of
desire as good, can yet lead a good, useful, just, and
loving life, is so astonishing that men of later
generations will, I should think, simply fail to
understand what the men of our time meant by
the words 'good life', when they said that the
gluttons — the effeminate, lustful sluggards — of our
wealthy classes led good lives. Indeed, one need
only put aside for a moment the customary view
of the life of our wealthy classes, and look at it, I do
not say from the Christian point of view, but from
the pagan standpoint, from the standpoint of the
very lowest demands of justice, to be convinced
that, living amidst the violation of the plainest laws
of justice or fairness, such as even children in their
games think it wrong to violate, we men of the
wealthy classes have no right even to talk about
a good life.

Any man of our society who would, I do not
say begin a good life but even begin to make some
little approach towards it, must first of all cease
to lead a bad life, must begin to destroy those
conditions of an evil life with which he finds himself
surrounded.

How often one hears, as an excuse for not
reforming our lives, the argument that any act that
is contrary to the usual mode of life would be
unnatural, ludicrous — would look like a desire to
show off, and would therefore not be a good action.
This argument seems expressly framed to prevent
people from ever changing their evil lives. If all
our life were good, just, kind, then and only then
would an action in conformity with the usual mode
of life be good. If half our life were good and the

io8 THE FIRST STEP

other half bad, then there would be as much chance
of an action not in conformity with the usual mode
of life being good as of its being bad. But when life
is altogether bad and wrong, as is the case in our
upper classes, then a man cannot perform a single
good action without disturbing the usual current
of life. He can do a bad action without disturbing
this current, but not a good one.

A man accustomed to the life of our well-to-do
classes cannot lead a righteous life without first
coming out of those conditions of evil in which he
is immersed — he cannot begin to do good until he
has ceased to do evil. It is impossible for a man
living in luxury to lead a righteous life. All his
efforts after goodness will be in vain until he
changes his life, until he performs that work which
stands first in sequence before him. A good life
according to the pagan view, and still more
according to the Christian view, is, and can be,
measured in no other way than by the mathematical
relation between love of self and love of others.
The less there is of love of self with all the ensuing
care about self and the selfish demands made upon
the labour of others, and the more there is of love
of others with the resultant care for and labour
bestowed upon others, the better is the life.

Thus has goodness of life been understood by all
the sages of the world and by all true Christians,
and in exactly the same way do all plain men
understand it now. The more a man gives to
others and the less he demands for himself, the
better he is: the less he gives to others and the
more he demands for himself, the worse he is.

And not only does a man become morally better
the more love he has for others and the less for
himself, but the less he loves himself the easier it
becomes for him to be better, and contrariwise.

THE FIRST STEP 109

The more a man loves himself, and consequently
the more he demands labour from others, the less
possibility is there for him to love and to work for
others; less not only by as much as the increase
of his love for himself, but less in an enormously
greater degree — just as when we move the fulcrum
of a lever from the long end towards the short end,
we not only increase the long arm but also reduce
the short one. Therefore if a man possessing a
certain faculty (love) augments his love and care
for himself, he thereby diminishes his power of
loving and caring for others not only in proportion
to the love he has transferred to himself but in
a much greater degree. Instead of feeding others
a man eats too much himself; by so doing he not
only diminishes the possibility of giving away the
surplus, but by overeating deprives himself of
power to help others.

In order to love others in reality and not in word
only, one must cease to love oneself also in reality
and not merely in word. In most cases it happens
thus: we think we love others, we assure ourselves
and others that it is so, but we love them only in
words while we love ourselves in reality. We forget
to feed and put others to bed, ourselves — never.
Therefore, in order really to love others in deed, we
must learn not to love ourselves in deed, learn to
forget to feed ourselves and put ourselves to bed,
exactly as we forget to do these things for others.

We say of a self-indulgent person accustomed to
lead a luxurious life, that he is a 'good man' and
'leads a good life'. But such a person — whether
man or woman — although he may possess the most
amiable traits of character, meekness, good nature,
&c., cannot be good and lead a good life, anymore
than a knife of the very best workmanship and steel
can be sharp and cut well unless it is sharpened.

no THE FIRST STEP

To be good and lead a good life means to give to
others more than one takes from them. But a self-
indulgent man accustomed to a luxurious life
cannot do this, first because he himself always
needs a great deal (and this not because he is selfish,
but because he is accustomed to luxury and finds
it painful to be deprived of that to which he is
accustomed) ; and secondly, because by consuming
all that he receives from others he weakens himself
and renders himself unfit for labour, and therefore
unfit to serve others. A self-indulgent man who
sleeps long upon a soft bed and consumes an
abundance of rich, sweet food, who always wears
clean clothes and such as are suited to the tem-
perature, who has never accustomed himself to
the effort of laborious work, can do very little.

We are so accustomed to our own lies and the lies
of others, and it is so convenient for us not to see
through the lies of others that they may not see
through ours, that we are not in the least astonished
at, and do not doubt the truth of, the assertion of
the virtue, sometimes even the sanctity, of people
who are leading a perfectly unrestrained life.

A person, man or woman, sleeps on a spring
bed with two mattresses, two smooth clean sheets,
and feather pillows in pillow-cases. By the bedside
is a rug that the feet may not get cold on stepping
out of bed, though slippers also lie near. Here also
are the necessary utensils so that he need not leave
the house — whatever uncleanliness he may produce
will be carried away and all made tidy. The
windows are covered with curtains that the day-
light may not awaken him, and he sleeps as long
as he is inclined. Besides all this, measures are
taken that the room may be warm in winter and
cool in summer, and that he may not be disturbed
by the noise of flies or other insects. While he

THE FIRST STEP in

sleeps hot and cold water for his ablutions, and
sometimes baths and preparations for shaving, are
provided. Tea and coffee are also prepared,
stimulating drinks to be taken immediately upon
rising. Boots, shoes, galoshes — several pairs dirtied
the previous day — are already being cleaned,
freed from every speck of dust, and made to shine
like glass. Other various garments soiled on the
preceding day are similarly cleaned, and these
differ in texture to suit not only summer and winter,
but also spring, autumn, rainy, damp, and warm
weather. Clean linen, washed, starched, and
ironed, is being made ready, with studs, shirt but-
tons, and button-holes, all carefully inspected by
specially appointed people.

If the person be active he rises early — at seven
o'clock — but still a couple of hours later than those
who are making all these preparations for him.
And besides clothes for the day and covering for
the ni^ht there is also a special costume and foot-
gear for him while he is dressing — dressing-gown
and slippers. And now he undertakes his washing,
cleaning, brushing, for which several kinds of
brushes are used as well as soap and a great
quantity of water. (Many English men and
women, for some reason or other, are specially
proud of using a great deal of soap and pouring
a large quantity of water over themselves.) Then
he dresses, brushes his hair before a special kind
of looking-glass (different from those that hang in
almost every room in the house), takes the things
he needs, such as spectacles or eyeglasses, and then
distributes in different pockets a clean pocket-
handkerchief to blow his nose on; a watch with
a chain, though in almost every room he goes to
there will be a clock; money of various kinds, small
change (often in a specially contrived case which

ii2 THE FIRST STEP

saves him the trouble of looking for the required
coin) and bank-no'es; also visiting cards on which
his name is printed (saving him the trouble of
saying or writing it) ; pocket-book and pencil. In
the case of women, the toilet is still more compli-
cated : corsets, arranging of long hair, adornments,
laces, elastics, ribbons, ties, hairpins, pins, brooches.

But at last all is complete and the day commences,
generally with eating: tea and coffee are drunk
with a great quantity of sugar; bread made of the
finest white flour is eaten with large quantities of
butter, and sometimes the flesh of pigs. The men
for the most part smoke cigars or cigarettes mean-
while, and read fresh papers which have just been
brought. Then, leaving to others the task of setting
right the soiled and disordered room, they go to
their office or business, or drive in carriages pro-
duced specially to move such people about. Then
comes a luncheon of slain beasts, birds, and fish,
followed by a dinner consisting, if it be very
modest, of three courses, dessert, and coffee. Then
playing at cards and playing music — or the theatre,
reading, and conversation in soft spring arm-
chairs by the intensified and shaded light of
candles, gas, or electricity. After this, more tea,
more eating — supper — and to bed again, the bed
shaken up and prepared with clean linen, and
the utensils washed to be made foul again.

Thus pass the days of a man of modest life, of
whom, if he is good-natured and does not possess
any habits specially obnoxious to those about him,
it is said that he leads a good and virtuous life.

But a good life is the life of a man who does good
to others; and can a man accustomed to live thus
do good to others? Before he can do good to men
he must cease to do evil. Reckon up all the harm
such a man, often unconsciously, does to others,

THE FIRST STEP 1 13

and you will see that he is far indeed from doing;
good. He would have to perform many acts ot
heroism to redeem the evil he commits, but he is
too much enfeebled by his self-created needs to
perform any such acts. He might sleep with more
advantage, both physical and moral, lying on the
floor wrapped in his cloak as Marcus Aurclius did ;
thus saving all the labour and trouble involved in
the manufacture of mattresses, springs, and pillows,
as well as the daily labour of the laundress — one
of the weaker sex burdened by the bearing and
nursing of children — who washes linen for this
strong man. By going to bed earlier and getting
up earlier he might save window-curtains and the
evening lamp. He might sleep in the same shirt
he wears during the day, might step barefooted
upon the floor, and go out into the yard ; he might
\\ash at the pump. In a word, he might live like
those who work for him, and thus save all this work
that is done for him. He might save all the labour
expended upon his clothing, his refined food, his
recreations. And he knows under what conditions
all these labours are performed: how men perish
and suffer in performing them, and how they often
hate those who take advantage of their poverty
to force them to do it.

How then can such a man do good to others
and lead a righteous life, without abandoning this
self-indulgence and luxury?

But we need not speak of how other people
appear in our eyes — every one must see and feel
this concerning himself.

I cannot but repeat this same thing again and
again, notwithstanding the cold and hostile silence
with which my words are received. A moral man,
living a life of comfort, a man even of the middle
class (I will not speak of the upper classes, who

114 THE FIRST STEP

daily consume the results of hundreds of working
days to satisfy their caprices), cannot live quietly,
knowing that all he is using is produced by the
labour of working people whose lives are crushed,
who are dying without hope — ignorant, drunken,
dissolute, semi-savage creatures employed in mines,
factories, and in agricultural labour, producing the
things that he uses.

At the present moment I who am writing this
and you who will read it, whoever you may be —
have wholesome, sufficient, perhaps abundant and
luxurious food, pure warm air to breathe, winter
and summer clothing, various recreations, and,
most important of all, leisure by day and un-
disturbed repose at night. And here by our
side live the working people, who have neither
wholesome food nor healthy lodgings nor sufficient
clothing nor recreations, and who above all are
deprived not only of leisure but even of rest : old
men, children, women, worn out by labour, by
sleepless nights, by disease, who spend their whole
lives providing for us those articles of comfort and
luxury which they do not possess, and which are
for us not necessities but superfluities. Therefore a
moral man (I do not say a Christian, but simply
a man professing humane views or merely esteem-
ing justice) cannot but wish to change his life and
to cease to use articles of luxury produced under
such conditions.

If a man really pities those who manufacture
tobacco, then the first thing he will naturally do
will be to cease smoking, because by continuing
to buy and smoke tobacco he encourages the pre-
paration of tobacco by which men's health is
destroyed. And so with eVery other article of
luxury. If a man can still continue to eat bread
notwithstanding the hard work by which it is pro-

THE FIRST STEP 115

duced, this is because he cannot forgo what is
indispensable while waiting for the present condi-
tions of labour to be altered. But with regard to
things which are not only unnecessary but are even
superfluous there can be no other conclusion than
this : that if I pity men engaged in the manufacture
of certain articles, then I must on no account
accustom myself to require such articles.

But nowadays men argue otherwise. They invent
the most varied and intricate arguments, but never
say what naturally occurs to every plain man.
According to them, it is not at all necessary to
abstain from luxuries. One can sympathize with
the condition of the working men, deliver speeches
and write books on their behalf, and at the same
time continue to profit by the labour that one sees
to be ruinous to them.

According to one argument, I may profit by
labour that is harmful to the workers because if I
do not another will. Which is something like the
argument that I must drink wine that is injurious
to me because it has been bought and if I do not
drink it others will.

According to another argument, it is even bene-
ficial to the workers to be allowed to produce
luxuries, for in this way we provide them with
money — that is with the means of subsistence : as
if we could not provide them with the means of
subsistence in any other way than by making them
produce articles injurious to them and superfluous
to us.

But according to a third argument, now most
popular, it seems that, since there is such a thing
as division of labour, any work upon which a man
is engaged — whether he be a Government official,
priest, landowner, manufacturer, or merchant — is
so useful that it fully compensates for the labour

n6 THE FIRST STEP

of the working classes by which he profits. One
serves the State, another the Church, a third
science, a fourth art, and a fifth serves those who
serve the State, science, and art; and all are firmly
convinced that what they give to mankind cer-
tainly compensates for all they take. And it is
astonishing how, wfhile continually augmenting
their luxurious requirements without increasing
their activity, these people continue to be certain
that their activity compensates for all they con-
sume.

Whereas if you listen to these people's judgement
of one another it appears that each individual is far
from being worth what he consumes. Government
officials say that the work of the landlords is not
worth what they spend, landlords say the same
about merchants, and merchants about Govern-
ment officials, and so on. But this does not dis-
concert them, and they continue to assure people
that they (each of them) profit by the labours or
others exactly in proportion to the service they
render to others. So that the payment is not deter-
mined by the work, but the value of the imaginary
work is determined by the payment. Thus they
assure one another, but they know perfectly well
in the depth of their souls that all their arguments
do not justify them; that they are not necessary to
the working men, and that they profit by the labour
of those men not on account of any division ol
labour but simply because they have the power
to do so, and because they are so spoiled that they
cannot do without it.

And all this arises from people imagining that
it is possible to lead a good life without first
acquiring the primary quality necessary for a good
life.

And that first quality is self-control.

THE FIRST STEP 117

VIII

There never has been and cannot be a good
life without self-control. Apart from self-control
no good life is imaginable. The attainment of
goodness must begin with that.

There is a scale of virtues, and if one would
mount the higher steps it is necessary to begin
\\ith the lowest; and the first virtue a man must
acquire if he wishes to acquire the others is that
which the ancients called ey/cparcta or aaxfrpocrvvrj —
that is, self-control or moderation.

If in the Christian teaching self-control was
included in the conception of self-renunciation,
still the order of succession remained the same, and
the acquirement of any Christian virtue is im-
possible \\ ithout self-control— and this not because
such a rule has been invented, but because it is the
essential nature of the case.

But even self-control, the first step in every
righteous life, is not attainable all at once but only
by degrees.

Self-control is the liberation of man from desires
— their subordination to moderation, aw<f)pocrvvr].
But a man's desires are many and various, and in
order to contend with them successfully he must
begin with the fundamental ones — those upon
which the more complex ones have grown up —
and not with those complex lusts which have
grown up upon the fundamental ones. There are
complex lusts like that of the adornment of the
body, sports, amusements, idle talk, inquisitive-
ness, and many others; and there are also funda-
mental lusts — gluttony, idleness, sexual love. And
one must begin to contend with these lusts from
the beginning: not with the complex but with the
fundamental ones, and that also in a definite order.

Ii8 THE FIRST STEP

And this order is determined both by the nature

of things and by the tradition of human wisdom.

A man who eats too much cannot strive against
laziness, while a gluttonous and idle man will never
be able to contend with sexual lust. Therefore,
according to all moral teachings, the effort towards
self-control commences with a struggle against the
lust of gluttony — commences with fasting. In our
time, however, every serious relation to the attain-
ment of a good life has been so long and so com-
pletely lost that not only is the very first virtue —
self-control — without which the others are un-
attainable, regarded as superfluous, but the order
of succession necessary for the attainment of this
first virtue is also disregarded, and fasting is quite
forgotten, or is looked upon as a silly superstition,
utterly unnecessary.

And yet, just as the first condition of a good life is
self-control, so the first condition of a life of self-
control is fasting.

One may wish to be good, one may dream of
goodness, without fasting; but to be good without
fasting is as impossible as it is to advance without
getting up on one's feet.

Fasting is an indispensable condition of a good
life, whereas gluttony is and always has been the
first sign of the opposite; and unfortunately this
vice is in the highest degree characteristic of the
life of the majority of the men of our time.

Look at the faces and figures of the men of our
circle and day. On all those faces with pendent
cheeks and chins, those corpulent limbs and
prominent stomachs, lies the indelible seal of a
dissolute life. Nor can it be otherwise. Consider
our life and the actuating motive of the majority
of men in our society, and then ask yourself, What
is the chief interest of this majority? And, strange

THE FIRST STEP ug

as it may appear to us who arc accustomed to
hide our real interests and to profess false, artificial
ones, you will find that the chief interest of their
life is the satisfaction of the palate, the pleasure
of eating — gluttony. From the poorest to the
richest, eating is, I think, the chief aim, the chief
pleasure, of our life. Poor working people form an
exception, but only inasmuch as want prevents
their addicting themselves to this passion. No
sooner have they the time and the means, than, in
imitation of the higher classes, they piocure rich
and tasty foods, and eat and drink as much as they
can. The more they eat the more do they deem
themselves not only happy, but also strong and
healthy. And in this conviction they are encour-
aged by the upper classes, who regard food in
precisely the same way. The educated classes
(following the medical men who assure them that
the most expensive food, flesh, is the most whole-
some) imagine that happiness and health consist
in tasty, nourishing, easily digested food — in gorg-
ing— though they try to conceal this.

Look at rich people's lives, listen to their con-
versation. What lofty subjects seem to occupy
them: philosophy, science, art, poetry, the dis-
tribution of wealth, the welfare of the people, and
the education of the young ! But all this is, for the
immense majority, a sham. All this occupies them
only in the intervals of business, real business : in
the intervals, that is, between lunch and dinner,
while the stomach is full and it is impossible to eat
more. The only real living interest of the majority
both of men and women, especially after early
youth, is eating — How to eat, what to eat, where to
eat, and when to eat.

No solemnity, no rejoicing, no consecration, on
opening of anything, can dispense with eating.

120 THE FIRST STEP

Watch people travelling. In their case the thing
is specially evident. 'Museums, libraries, Parlia-
ment— how very interesting! But where shall we
dine? Where is one best fed?' Look at people
when they come together for dinner, dressed up,
perfumed, around a table decorated with flowers —
how joyfully they rub their hands and smile !

If we could look into the hearts of the majority
of people what should we find they most desire?
Appetite for breakfast and for dinner. W7hat is the
severest punishment from infancy upwards? To
be put on bread and water. What artisans get the
highest wages? Cooks. What is the chief interest
of the mistress of the house? To what subject docs
the conversation of middle-class housewives gener-
ally tend? If the conversation of the members of
the higher classes does not tend in the same direc-
tion it is not because they are better educated or
are occupied with higher interests, but simply
because they have a housekeeper or a steward who
relieves them of all anxiety about their dinner. But
once deprive them of this convenience and you
will see what causes them most anxiety. It all
comes round to the subject of eating: the price
of grouse, the best way of making coffee, of baking
sweet cakes, and so on. People come together
whatever the occasion — a christening, a funeral,
a wedding, the consecration of a church, the
departure or arrival of a friend, the consecration
of regimental colours, the celebration of a memor-
able day, the death or birth of a great scientist,
philosopher, or teacher of morality — men come
together as if occupied by the most lofty interests.
But it is only a pretence: they all know that there
will be eating — good tasty food — and drinking,
and it is chiefly this that brings them together. To
this end, for several days before, animals have been

THE FIRST STEP 121

slaughtered, baskets of provisions brought from
gastronomic shops, cooks and their helpers, kitchen
boys and maids, specially attired in clean, starched
frocks and caps, have been 'at \vork'. Chefs,
receiving £50 a month and more, have been
occupied in giving directions. Cooks have been
chopping, kneading, roasting, arranging, adorning.
With like solemnity and importance a master of the
ceremonies has been working, calculating, ponder-
ing, adjusting with his eye, like an artist. A
gardener has been employed upon the flouers.
Scullery-maids. . . . An army of men has been at
work, the result of thousands of working days are
being swallowed up, and all this that people may
come together to talk about some great teacher
of science or morality, or to recall the memory of
a deceased friend, or to greet a young couple just
entering upon a new life.

In the middle and lower classes it is perfectly
evident that every festivity, every funeral or wed-
ding, means gluttony. There the matter is so
undei stood. To such an extent is gluttony the
motive of the assembly that in Greek and in French
the same word means both 'wedding' and 'feast'.
But in the upper classes of the rich, especially
among the refined who have long possessed wealth,
great skill is used to conceal this and to make it
appear that eating is a secondary matter necessary
only for appearance. And this pretence is easy,
for in the majority of cases the guests are satiated
in the true sense of the word — they are never
hungry.

They pretend that dinner, eating, is not neces-
sary to them, is even a burden ; but this is a lie. Try
giving them — instead of the refined dishes they
expect — I do not say bread and water, but por-
ridge or gruel or something of that kind, and see

122 THE FIRST STEP

what a storm it will call forth and how evident
will become the real truth, namely, that the chief
interest of the assembly is not the ostensible one
but — gluttony.

Look at what men sell. Go through a town and
see what men buy — articles of adornment and
things to devour. And indeed this must be so, it
cannot be otherwise. It is only possible not to
think about eating, to keep this lust under control,
when a man does not eat except in obedience to
necessity. If a man ceases to eat only in obedience
to necessity — if, that is, he eats when the stomach
is full — then the state of things cannot but be what
it actually is. If men love the pleasure of eating,
if they allow themselves to love this pleasure, if
they find it good (as is the case with the vast
majority of men in our time, and with educated
men quite as much as with uneducated, though
they pretend that it is not so), there is no limit to the
augmentation of this pleasure, no limit beyond
which it may not grow. The satisfaction of a need
has limits, but pleasure has none. For the satis-
faction of our needs it is necessary and sufficient to
eat bread, porridge, or rice; for the augmentation
of pleasure there is no end to the possible flavour-
ings and seasonings.

Bread is a necessary and sufficient food. (This
is proved by the millions of men who are strong,
active, healthy, and hard-working on rye bread
alone.) But it is pleasanter to eat bread with some
flavouring. It is well to soak the bread in water
boiled with meat. Still better to put into this
water some vegetable or, even better, several
vegetables. It is well to eat flesh. And flesh is
better not stewed, but roasted. It is better still with
butter, and underdone, and choosing out certain
special parts of the meat. But add to this vegetables

THE FIRST STEP 123

and mustard. And drink wine with it, red wine
for preference. One does not need any more, but
one can still eat some fish if it is well flavoured with
sauces and swallowed down with white wine. It
would seem as if one could get through nothing
more, either rich or tasty, but a sweet dish can
still be managed : in summer ices, in winter stewed
fruits, preserves, and the like. And thus we have
a dinner, a modest dinner. The pleasure of such
a dinner can be greatly augmented. And it is
augmented, and there is no limit to this augmenta-
tion : stimulating snacks, hors-d'oeuvres before dinner,
and entremets and desserts, and various combina-
tions of tasty things, and flowers and decorations
and music during dinner.

And strange to say, men who daily overeat
themselves at such dinners — in comparison witfc
which the feast of Belshazzar that evoked the
prophetic warning was nothing — are naively per-
suaded that they may yet be leading a moral life.

IX

Fasting is an indispensable condition of a good
life; but in fasting, as in self-control in general, the
question arises, what shall we begin with? — How
to fast, how often to eat, what to eat, what to
avoid eating? And as we can do no work seriously
without regarding the necessary order of sequence,
so also we cannot fast without knowing where to
begin — with what to commence self-control in food.

Fasting! And even an analysis of how to fast
and where to begin! The notion seems ridiculous
and wild to the majority of men.

I remember how an Evangelical preacher who
was attacking monastic asceticism once said to
me with pride at his own originality, 'Ours is not
a Christianity of fasting and privations, but of

124 THE FIRST STEP

beefsteaks.5 Christianity, or virtue in general — and

beefsteaks !

During a long period of darkness and lack of all
guidance, Pagan or Christian, so many wild,
immoral ideas have made their way into our life
(especially into that lower region of the first steps
towards a good life — our relation to food to which
no one paid any attention), that it is difficult for
us in our days even to understand the audacity
and senselessness of upholding Christianity or
virtue with beefsteaks.

We are not horrified by this association simply
because a strange thing has befallen us. We look
and see not: listen and hear not. There is no bad
odour, no sound, no monstrosity, to which man
cannot become so accustomed that he ceases to
remark what would strike a man unaccustomed
to it. And it is precisely the same in the moral
region. Christianity and morality with beef-
steaks !

A few days ago I visited the slaughter-house in
our town of Tula. It is built on the new and im-
proved system practised in large towns, with a
view to causing the animals as little suffering as
possible. It was on a Friday, two days before
Trinity Sunday. There were many cattle there.

Long before this, when reading that excellent
book, The Ethics of Diet, I had wished to visit a
slaughter-house in order to see with my own eyes
the reality of the question raised when vegetarian-
ism is discussed. But at first I felt ashamed to do
so, as one is always ashamed of going to look at
suffering which one knows is about to take place
but which one cannot avert; and so I kept putting
off my visit.

But a little while ago I met on the road a butcher
returning to Tula after a visit to his home. He is

THE FIRST STEP 125

not yet an experienced butcher, and his duty is to
stab with a knife. I asked him whether he did not
feel sorry for the animals that he killed. He gave
me the usual answer: 'Why should I feel sorry? It
is necessary.' But when I told him that eating
flesh is not necessary, but is only a luxury, he
agreed; and then he admitted that he was sorrv
for the animals. 'But what can I do?' he said,
'I must earn my bread. At first I was afraid to
kill. My father, he never even killed a chicken in
all his life.' The majority of Russians cannot kill;
they feel pity, and express the feeling by the word
''fear". This man had also been 'afraid', but he
was so no longer. He told me that most of the
work was done on Fridays, when it continues until
the evening.

Not long ago I also had a talk with a retired
soldier, a butcher, and he too was surprised at my
assertion that it was a pity to kill, and said the usual
things about its being ordained. But afterwards he
agreed with me: 'Especially wrhen they are quiet,
tame cattle. They come, poor things ! trusting you.
It is very pitiful.'

This is dreadful! Not the suffering and death
of the animals, but that man suppresses in himself,
unnecessarily, the highest spiritual capacity — that
of sympathy and pity towards living creatures like
himself — and by violating his own feelings becomes
cruel. And how deeply seated in the human heart
is the injunction not to take life!

Once, when walking from Moscow,1 I was
offered a lift by some carters who were going from
Serpukhov to a neighbouring forest to fetch wood.

1 When returning to Yasnaya Polyana in spring after his
winter's residence in Moscow, Tolst6y repeatedly chose to
walk the distance (something over 1 30 miles) instead of going
by rail. S6rpukhov is a town he had to pass on the way. — A. M.

126 THE FIRST STEP

It was the Thursday before Easter. I was seated
in the first cart with a strong, red, coarse carman,
who evidently drank. On entering a village we
saw a well-fed, naked, pink pig being dragged out
of the first yard to be slaughtered. It squealed in
a dreadful voice, resembling the shriek of a man.
Just as we were passing they began to kill it. A
man gashed its throat with a knife. The pig
squealed still more loudly and piercingly, broke
away from the men, and ran off covered with
blood. Being near-sighted I did not see all the
details. I saw only the human-looking pink body
of the pig and heard its desperate squeal, but the
carter saw all the details and watched closely.
They caught the pig, knocked it down, and finished
cutting its throat. When its squeals ceased the
carter sighed heavily. 'Do men really not have to
answer for such things?' he said.

So strong is man's aversion to all killing. But by
example, by encouraging greediness, by the asser-
tion that God has allowed it, and above all by
habit, people entirely lose this natural feeling.

On Friday I decided to go to Tula, and, meeting
a meek, kind acquaintance of mine, I invited him
to accompany me.

'Yes, I have heard that the arrangements are
good, and have been wishing to go and see it; but
if they are slaughtering I will not go in.'

'Why not? That's just what I want to see! If
we eat flesh it must be killed.1

'No, no, I cannot!'

It is worth remarking that this man is a sports-
man and himself kills animals and birds.

So we went to the slaughter-house. Even at the
entrance one noticed the heavy, disgusting, fetid
smell, as of carpenter's glue, or paint on glue.
The nearer we approached the stronger became

THE FIRST STEP 127

the smell. The building is of red brick, very large,
with vaults and high chimneys. We entered the
gates. To the right was a spacious enclosed yard,
three-quarters of an acre in extent — twice a week
cattle are driven in here for sale — and adjoining
this enclosure \vas the porter's lodge. To the left
were the chambers, as they are called — i.e. rooms
with arched entrances, sloping asphalt floors, and
contrivances for moving and hanging up the car-
casses. On a bench against the wall of the porter's
lodge were seated half a dozen butchers, in aprons
covered with blood, their tucked-up sleeves dis-
closing their muscular arms also besmeared with
blood. They had finished their work half an hour
before, so that day we could only see the empty
chambers. Though these chambers were open on
both sides, there was an oppressive smell of warm
blood ; the floor was brown and shining, with con-
gealed black blood in the cavities.

One of the butchers described the process of
slaughtering, and showed us the place where it was
done. I did not quite understand him, and formed
a wrong, but very horrible, idea of the way the
animals are slaughtered; and I fancied that, as is
often the case, the reality would very likely produce
upon me a weaker impression than the imagina-
tion. But in this I was mistaken.

The next time I visited the slaughter-house I
went in good time. It was the Friday before
Trinity — a warm day in June. The smell of glue
and blood was even stronger and more penetrating
than on my first visit. The work was at its height.
The dusty yard was full of cattle, and animals had
been driven into all the enclosures beside the
chambers.

In the street before the entrance stood carts to
which oxen, calves, and cows were tied. Other

128 THE FIRST STEP

carts drawn by good horses and filled with live
calves, whose heads hung down and swayed about,
drew up and were unloaded; and similar carts
containing the carcasses of oxen, with trembling
legs sticking out, with heads and bright red lungs
and brown livers, drove away from the slaughter-
house. By the fence stood the cattle-dealers'
horses. The dealers themselves, in their long coats,
with their whips and knouts in their hands, were
walking about the yard, either marking with tar
cattle belonging to the same owner, or bargaining,
or else guiding oxen and bulls from the great yard
into the enclosures which lead into the chambers.
These men were evidently all preoccupied with
money matters and calculations, and any thought
as to whether it was right or wrong to kill these
animals was as far from their minds as were
questions about the chemical composition of the
blood that covered the floor of the chambers.

No butchers were to be seen in the yard; they
were all in the chambers at work. That day about
a hundred head of cattle were slaughtered. I was
on the point of entering one of the chambers, but
stopped short at the door. I stopped both because
the chamber was crowded with carcasses which
were being moved about, and also because blood
was flowing on the floor and dripping from above.
All the butchers present were besmeared with
blood, and had I entered I, too, should certainly
have been covered with it. One suspended carcass
was being taken down, another was being moved
towards the door, a third, a slaughtered ox, was
lying with its white legs raised, while a butcher
with strong hand was ripping up its tight-stretched
hide.

Through the door opposite the one at which I
was standing, a big, red, well-fed ox was led in.

THE FIRST STEP 129

Two men were dragging it, and hardly had it
entered when I saw a butcher raise a knife above
its neck and stab it. The ox, as if all four legs had
suddenly given way, fell heavily on its belly, im-
mediately turned over on one side, and began to
work its legs and its whole hind-quarters. Another
butcher at once threw himself upon the ox from
the side opposite to the twitching legs, caught its
horns and twisted its head down to the ground,
while another butcher cut its throat with a knife.
From beneath the head there flowed a stream of
blackish-red blood, which a besmeared boy caught
in a tin basin. All the time this was going on the
ox kept incessantly twitching its head as if trying
to get up, and waved its four legs in the air. The
basin was quickly filling, but the ox still lived, and,
its stomach heaving heavily, both hind and fore
legs worked so violently that the butchers held
aloof. When one basin was full the boy carried it
away on his head to the albumen factory, while
another boy placed a fresh basin, which also soon
began to fill up. But still the ox heaved its body
and worked its hind legs.

When the blood ceased to flow the butcher
raised the animal's head and began to skin it. The
ox continued to writhe. The head, stripped of its
skin, showed red with white veins, and kept the
position given it by the butcher; the skin hung
on both sides. Still the animal did not cease to
writhe. Then another butcher caught hold of one
of the legs, broke it, and cut it off. In the remaining
legs and the stomach the convulsions still continued.
The other legs were cut off and thrown aside, to-
gether with those of other oxen belonging to the
same owner. Then the carcass was dragged to the
hoist and hung up and the convulsions were over.

Thus I looked on from the door at the second,

459 p

130 THE FIRST STEP

third, and fourth ox. It was the same with each : the
same cutting off of the head with bitten tongue,
and the same convulsive members. The only
difference was that the butcher did not always
strike at once so as to cause the animal's fall.
Sometimes he missed his aim, whereupon the ox
leaped up, bellowed, and, covered with blood,
tried to escape. But then his head was pulled under
a bar, struck a second time, and he fell.

I afterwards entered by the door at which the
oxen were led in. Here I saw the same thing, only
nearer, and therefore more plainly. But chiefly I
saw here, what I had not seen before, how the
oxen were forced to enter this door. Each time an
ox was seized in the enclosure and pulled forward
by a rope tied to its horns, the animal, smelling
blood, refused to advance, and sometimes bellowed
and drew back. It would have been beyond the
strength of two men to drag it in by force, so one
of the butchers went round each time, grasped the
animal's tail, and twisted it so violently that the
gristle crackled, and the ox advanced.

When they had finished with the cattle of one
owner they brought in those of another. The first
animal of this next lot was not an ox but a bull — a
fine, well-bred creature, black, with white spots on
its legs, young, muscular, full of energy. He was
dragged forward, but he lowered his head and
resisted sturdily. Then the butcher who followed
behind seized the tail like an engine-driver grasp-
ing the handle of a whistle, twisted it, the gristle
crackled, and the bull rushed forward, upsetting
the men who held the rope. Then it stopped,
looking sideways with its black eyes, the whites of
which had filled with blood. But again the tail
crackled, and the bull sprang forward and reached
the required spot. The striker approached, took

THE FIRST STEP 131

aim, and struck. But the blow missed the mark.
The bull leaped up, shook his head, bellowed, and,
covered with blood, broke free and rushed back.
The men at the doorway all sprang aside; but the
experienced butchers, with the dash of men inured
to danger, quickly caught the rope; again the tail
operation was repeated, and again the bull was in
the chamber, where he was dragged under the bar,
from which he did not again escape. The striker
quickly took aim at the spot where the hair divides
like a star, and, notwithstanding the blood, found
it, struck, and the fine animal, full of life, collapsed,
its head and legs writhing while it was bled and
the head skinned.

*There, the cursed devil hasn't even fallen the
right way!' grumbled the butcher as he cut the
skin from the head.

Five minutes later the head was stuck up, red
instead of black, without skin; the eyes, that had
shone with such splendid colour five minutes
before, fixed and glassy.

Afterwards I went into the compartment where
small animals are slaughtered — a very large cham-
ber with asphalt floor, and tables with backs, on
which sheep and calves are killed. Here the work
was already finished ; in the long room, impregnated
with the smell of blood, were only two butchers.
One was blowing into the leg of a dead lamb and
patting the swollen stomach with his hand; the
other, a young fellow in an apron besmeared with
blood, was smoking a bent cigarette. There was no
one else in the long dark chamber, filled with a
heavy smell. After me there entered a man, ap-
parently an ex-soldier, bringing in a young yearling
ram, black with a white mark on its neck, and its
legs tied. This animal he placed upon one of the
tables as if upon a bed. The old soldier greeted

1 32 THE FIRST STEP

the butchers, with whom he was evidently ac-
quainted, and began to ask when their master
allowed them leave. The fellow with the cigarette
approached with a knife, sharpened it on the edge
of the table, and answered that they were free on
holidays. The live ram was lying as quietly as
the dead inflated one, except that it was briskly
wagging its short little tail and its sides were
heaving more quickly than usual. The soldier
pressed down its uplifted head gently, without
effort; the butcher, still continuing the conversa-
tion, grasped with his left hand the head of the
ram and cut its throat. The ram quivered, and
the little tail stiffened and ceased to wave. The
fellow, while waiting for the blood to flow, began
to relight his cigarette which had gone out. The
blood flowed and the ram began to writhe. The
conversation continued without the slightest inter-
ruption. It was horribly revolting.

*******

And how about those hens and chickens which
daily, in thousands of kitchens, with heads cut off
and streaming with blood, comically, dreadfully,
flop about, jerking their wings?

And see, a kind, refined lady will devour the
carcasses of these animals with full assurance that
she is doing right, at the same time asserting two
contradictory propositions:

First, that she is, as her doctor assures her, so
delicate that she cannot be sustained by vegetable
food alone and that for her feeble organism flesh
is indispensable; and secondly, that she is so
sensitive that she is unable, not only herself to
inflict suffering on animals, but even to bear the
sight of suffering.

Whereas the poor lady is weak precisely because
she has been taught to live upon food unnatural to

THE FIRST STEP 133

man; and she cannot avoid causing suffering to
animals — for she eats them.

We cannot pretend that we do not know this.
We are not ostriches, and cannot believe that if
we refuse to look at what we do not wish to see, it
will not exist. This is especially the case when what
we do not wish to see is \\hat we wish to eat. If it
were really indispensable, or if not indispensable,
at least in some way useful! But it is quite un-
necessary,1 and only serves to develop animal
feelings, to excite desire, and to promote fornication
and drunkenness. And this is continually being con-
firmed by the fact that young, kind, undepraved
people — especially women and girls — without know-
ing how it logically follows, feel that virtue is incom-
patible with beefsteaks, and, as soon as they wish
to be good, give up eating flesh.

What, then, do I wish to say? That in order to
be moral people must cease to eat meat? Not at all.

I only wish to say that for a good life a certain
order of good actions is indispensable ; that if a man's
aspirations toward right living be serious they will
inevitably follow one definite sequence; and that
in this sequence the first virtue a man will strive
after will be self-control, self-restraint. And in
seeking for self-control a man will inevitably follow
one definite sequence, and in this sequence the

1 Let those who doubt this read the numerous books upon
the subject, written by scientists and doctors, in which it is
proved that flesh is not necessary for the nourishment of
man. And let them not listen to those old-fashioned doctors
who defend the assertion that flesh is necessary, merely because
it has long been so regarded by their predecessors and by
themselves; and who defend their opinion with tenacity and
malevolence, as all that is old and traditional always is
defended.—!-. T.

134 THE FIRST STEP

first thing will be self-control in food — fasting. And
in fasting, if he be really and seriously seeking to
live a good life, the first thing from which he will
abstain will always be the use of animal food, be-
cause, to say nothing of the excitation of the
passions caused by such food, its use is simply
immoral, as it involves the performance of an act
which is contrary to moral feeling — killing; and
is called forth only by greediness and the desire
for tasty food.

The precise reason why abstinence from animal
food will be the first act of fasting and of a moral
life is admirably explained in the book, The Ethics
of Diet ; and not by one man only, but by all man-
kind in the persons of its best representatives during
all the conscious life of humanity.

But why, if the wrongfulness — i.e. the immorality
— of animal food was known to humanity so lon^
ago, have people not yet come to acknowledge this
law? will be asked by those who are accustomed to
be led by public opinion rather than by reason.

The answer to this question is that the moral
progress of humanity — which is the foundation of
every other kind of progress — is always slow ; but
that the sign of true, not casual, progress is its
uninterruptedness and its continual acceleration.

And the progress of vegetarianism is of this kind.
That progress is expressed both in the words of the
writers cited in the above-mentioned book and in
the actual life of mankind, which from many causes
is involuntarily passing more and more from car-
nivorous habits to vegetable food, and is also de-
liberately following the same path in a movement
which shows evident strength, and which is growing
larger and larger — viz. vegetarianism. That move-
ment has during the last ten years advanced more
and more rapidly. More and more books and

THE FIRST STEP 135

periodicals on this subject appear every year; onr
meets more and more people who have given up
meat; and abroad, especially in Germany, England,
and America, the number of vegetarian hotels and
restaurants increases year by year.

This movement should cause especial joy to those
\\hose life lies in the effort to bring about the
kingdom of God on earth, not because vegetarian-
ism is in itself an important step towards that
kingdom (all true steps are both important and
unimportant), but because it is a sign that the
aspiration of mankind towards moral perfection is
serious and sincere, for it has taken the one un-
alterable order of succession natural to it, beginning
with the first step.

One cannot fail to rejoice at this, as people could
not fail to rejoice who, after striving to reach the
upper story of a house by trying vainly and at
random to climb the walls from different points,
should at last assemble at the first step of the stair-
case and crowd towards it, convinced that there can
be no way up except by mounting this first step
of the stairs.

['**•]

[The above essay was written as Preface to a Russian
translation of Howard Williams's The Ethics of Diet.]

NON-ACTING

editor of a Paris review, thinking that the
Jl opinions of two celebrated writers on the state
of mind that is common to-day would interest me,
has sent me two extracts from French newspapers —
one containing Zola's speech delivered at the ban-
quet of the General Association of Students, the
other containing a letter from Dumas to the editor
of the Gaulois.

These documents interested me profoundly, both
on account of their timeliness and the celebrity of
their authors, and also because it would be difficult
to find so concisely, vigorously, and brilliantly ex-
pressed in present-day literature the two funda-
mental forces that move humanity. The one is
the force of routine, tending to keep humanity
in its accustomed path; the other is the force of
reason and love, drawing humanity towards the
light.

The following is Zola's speech in extenso:

'GENTLEMEN,

'You have paid me a great honour and conferred
on me a great pleasure by choosing me to preside
at this Annual Banquet. There is no better or more
charming society than that of the young. There is
no audience more sympathetic, or before whom
one's heart opens more freely with the wish to be
loved and listened to.

*I, alas! have reached an age at which we begin
to regret our departed youth, and to pay attention
to the efforts of the rising generation that is climb-
ing up behind us. It is they who will both judge
us and carry on our work. In them I feel the future
coming to birth, and at times I ask myself, not

NON-ACTING 137

without some anxiety, What of all our efforts will
they reject and what will they retain? What will
happen to our work when it has passed into their
hands? For it cannot last except through them, and
it will disappear unless they accept it, to enlarge it
and bring it to completion.

'That is why I eagerly watch the movement of
ideas among the youth of to-day, and read the
advanced papers and reviews, endeavouring to
keep in touch with the new spirit that animates our
schools and striving vainly to know whither you
are all wending your way — you, who represent the
intelligence and the will of to-morrow.

'Certainly, gentlemen, egotism plays its part in
the matter; I do not hide it. I am somewhat like
a workman who, finishing a house which he hopes
will shelter his old age, is anxious concerning the
weather he has to expect. Will the rain damage his
walls? May not a sudden wind from the north
tear the roof off? Above all, has he built strongly
enough to resist the storm? Has he spared neither
durable material nor irksome labour? It is not
that I think our work eternal or final. The greatest
must resign themselves to the thought that they
represent but a moment in the ever-continuing
development of the human spirit : it will be more
than sufficient to have been for one hour the mouth-
piece of a generation ! And since one cannot keep
a literature stationary but all things continually
evolve and recommence, one must expect to see
younger men born and grow up who will, perhaps,
in their turn cause you to be forgotten. I do not
say that the old warrior in me docs not at times
desire to resist when he feels his work attacked.
But in truth I face the approaching century with
more of curiosity than of revolt, and more of ardent
sympathy than of personal anxiety; let me perish,

138 NON- ACTING

and let all my generation perish with me if indeed
we are good for nothing but to fill up the ditch
for those who follow us in the march towards the
light.

'Gentlemen, I constantly hear it said that
Positivism is at its last gasp, that Naturalism is
dead, that Science has reached the point of bank-
ruptcy, having failed to supply either the moral
peace or the human happiness it promised. You
will well understand that I do not here undertake
to solve the great problems raised by these ques-
tions. I am an ignoramus and have no authority
to speak in the name of science or philosophy. I
am, if you please, simply a novelist, a writer who
has at times seen a little way into the heart of
things, and whose competence consists only in
having observed much and worked much. And it
is only as a witness that I allow myself to speak of
what my generation — the men who are now fifty
years old and whom your generation will soon
regard as ancestors — has been, or at least has
wished to be.

'I was much struck, a few days ago, at the open-
ing of the Salon du Champ-de-Mars, by the character-
istic appearance of the rooms. It is thought that
the pictures are always much the same. That is an
error. The evolution is slow, but how astonished
one would be to-day were it possible to revert to
the Salons of some former years ! For my part, I
well remember the last academic and romantic
exhibitions about 1863. Work in the open air (le
plein air) had not yet triumphed; there was a
general tone of bitumen, a smudging of canvas, a
prevalence of burnt colours, the semi-darkness of
studios. Then some fifteen years later, after the
victorious and much-contested influence of Manet,
I can recall quite other exhibitions where the clear

NON-ACTING 139

tone of full sunlight shone; it was as it were an
inundation of light, a care for truth which made
each picture-frame a window opened upon Nature
bathed in light. And yesterday, after another
fifteen years, I could discern amid the fresh lim-
pidity of the productions the rising of a kind of
mystic fog. There was the same care for clear
painting, but the reality was changing, the figures
were more elongated, the need of originality and
novelty carried the artists over into the land of
dreams.

4 If I have dwelt on these three stages of con-
temporary painting, I have done so because it
seems to me that they correspond very strikingly
to the contemporary movements of thought. My
generation indeed, following illustrious prede-
cessors of whom we were but the successors, strove
to open the windows wide to Nature, in order to
see all and to say all. In our generation, even
among those least conscious of it, the long efforts
of positive philosophy and of analytical and experi-
mental science came to fruition. Our fealty
was to Science, which surrounded us on all sides;
in her we lived, breathing the air of the epoch.
I am free to confess that personally I was even
a sectarian who lived to transport the rigid
methods of Science into the domain of Literature.
But where can the man be found who in the stress
of strife does not exceed what is necessary, and is
content to conquer without compromising his
victory? On the whole I have nothing to regret,
and I continue to believe in the passion which wills
and acts. What enthusiasm, what hope, were ours !
To know all, to prevail in all, and to conquer all !
By means of truth to make humanity more noble
and more happy!

'And it is at this point, gentlemen! that you, the

140 NON-ACTING

young, appear upon the scene. I say the young,
but the term is vague, distant, and deep as the sea,
for where are the young? What will it — the young
generation — really become? Who has a right tc
speak in its name? I must of necessity deal with
the ideas attributed to it, but if these ideas are not
at all those held by many of you, I ask pardon in
advance, and refer you to the men who have misled
us by untrustworthy information, more in accord
no doubt with their own wishes than with reality.

'At any rate, gentlemen, we are assured that
your generation is parting company with ours, that
you will no longer put all your hope in Science,
that you have perceived so great a social and moral
danger in trusting fully to her that you are deter-
mined to throw yourselves back upon the past in
order to construct a living faith from the debris
of dead ones.

'Of course there is no question of a complete
divorce from Science; it is understood that you
accept her latest conquests and mean to extend
them. It is agreed that you will admit demon-
strated truths, and efforts are even being made to
fit them to ancient dogmas. But at bottom
Science is to stand out of the road of faith — it is
thrust back to its ancient rank as a simple exercise
of the intelligence, an inquiry permitted so long
as it does not infringe on the supernatural and the
hereafter. It is said that the experiment has been
made, and that Science can neither repeople the
heavens she has emptied nor restore happiness to
souls whose naive peace she has destroyed. The
day of her mendacious triumph is over; she must
be modest since she cannot immediately know
everything, enrich everything, and heal every-
thing. And if they dare not yet bid intelligent youth
throw away its books and desert its masters, there

NON-ACTING 141

are already sainti and prophets to be found going
about to exalt the virtue of ignorance, the serenity
of simplicity, and to proclaim the need a too-learned
and decrepit humanity has of recuperating itself
in the depths of a prehistoric village, among
ancestors hardly detached from the earth, ante-
ceding all society and all knowledge.

4 1 do not at all deny the crisis we are passing
through — this lassitude and revolt at the end of the
century, after such feverish and colossal labour,
whose ambition it was to know all and to say all.
It seemed that Science, which had just overthrown
the old order, would promptly reconstruct it in
accord with our ideal of justice and of happiness.
Twenty, fifty, even a hundred years passed. And
then, when it was seen that justice did not reign,
that happiness did not come, many people yielded
to a growing impatience, falling into despair and
denying that by knowledge one can ever reach the
happy land. It is a common occurrence; there can
be no action without reaction, and wre are witness-
ing the fatigue inevitably incidental to long
journeys: people sit down by the roadside — seeing
the interminable plain of another century stretch
before them, they despair of ever reaching their
destination, and they finish by even doubting the
road they have travelled and regretting not to
have reposed in a field to sleep for ever under the
stars. What is the good of advancing if the goal
is ever further removed? What is the use of know-
ing, if one may not know everything? As well let
us keep our unsullied simplicity, the ignorant
happiness of a child.

'And thus it seemed that Science, which was
supposed to have promised happiness, had reached
bankruptcy.

'But did Science promise happiness? I do not

142 NON-ACTING

believe it. She promised truth, and the question
is whether one will ever reach happiness by way
of truth. In order to content oneself with what
truth gives, much stoicism will certainly be needed :
absolute self-abnegation and a serenity of the satis-
fied intelligence which seems to be discoverable
only among the chosen few. But meanwhile what
a cry of despair rises from suffering humanity!
How can life be lived without lies and illusions? If
there is no other world — where justice reigns, where
the wicked are punished and the good are recom-
pensed— how are we to live through this abomin-
able human life without revolting? Nature is
unjust and cruel. Science seems to lead us to the
monstrous law of the strongest — so that all morality
crumbles away and every society makes for despot-
ism. And in the reaction which results — in that
lassitude from too much knowledge of which I have
spoken — there comes a recoil from the truth which
is as yet but poorly explained, and seems cruel to
our feeble eyes that are unable to penetrate into
and to seize all its laws. No, no ! Lead us back to
the peaceful slumber of ignorance! Reality is a
school of perversion which must be killed and
denied, since it will lead to nothing but ugliness and
crime. So one plunges into dreamland as the only
salvation, the only way to escape from the earth,
to feel confidence in the hereafter and hope that
there, at last, we shall find happiness and the satis-
faction of our desire for fraternity and justice.

'That is the despairing cry for happiness which
we hear to-day. It touches me exceedingly. And
notice that it rises from all sides like a cry of lamen-
tation amid the re-echoing of advancing Science,
who checks not the march of her waggons and her
engines. Enough of truth ; give us chimeras ! We
shall find rest only in dreams of the Non-existent,

NON-ACTING 143

only by losing ourselves in the Unknown. There
only bloom the mystic flowers whose perfume lulls
our sufferings to sleep. Music has already re-
sponded to the call, literature strives to satisfy this
new thirst, and painting follows the same way. I
have spoken to you of the exhibition at the Champ-
de-Mars; there you may see the bloom of all this
flora of our ancient windows — lank, emaciated
virgins, apparitions in twilight tints, stiff figures
with the rigid gestures of the Primitivists. It is a
reaction against Naturalism which we are told is
dead and buried. In any case the movement is
undeniable, for it manifests itself in all modes of
expression, and one must pay great attention to
the study and the explanation of it if one does not
wish to despair of to-morrow,

'For my part, gentlemen, I, who am an old and
hardened Positivist, see in it but an inevitable halt
in the forward march. It is not really even a halt,
for our libraries, our laboratories, our lecture-halls
and our schools, are not deserted. What also
reassures me is that the social soil has undergone
no change, it is still the democratic soil from which
our century sprang. For a new art to flourish or
a new faith to change the direction in which
humanity is travelling — that faith would need a
new soil which would allow it to germinate and
grow: for there can be no new society without
a new soil. Faith does not rise from the dead, and
one can make nothing but mythologies out of dead
religions. Therefore the coming century will but
continue our own in the democratic and scientific
rush forward which has swept us along, and which
still continues. What I can concede is that in
literature we limited our horizon too much. Per-
sonally I have already regretted that I was a
sectarian in that I wished art to confine itself to

144 NON-ACTING

proven verities. Later comers have extended the
horizon by reconquering the region of the unknown
and the mysterious; and they have done well.
Between the truths fixed by science, which are
henceforth immovable, and the truths Science will
to-morrow seize from the region of the unknown to
fix in their turn, there lies an undefined borderland
of doubt and inquiry, which it seems to me belongs
to literature as much as to science. It is there we
may go as pioneers, doing our work as forerunners,
and interpreting the action of unknown forces ac-
cording to our characters and minds. The ideal —
what is it but the unexplained : those forces of the
infinite world in which we are plunged without
knowing them? But if it be permissible to invent
solutions of what is unknown, dare we therefore call
in question ascertained laws, imagining them other
than they are and thereby denying them? As
science advances it is certain that the ideal recedes :
and it seems to me that the only meaning of life,
the only joy we ought to attribute to life, lies in this
gradual conquest, even if one has the melancholy
assurance that we never shall know everything.

cln the unquiet times in which we live, gentle-
men,— in our day so satiated and so irresolute —
shepherds of the soul have arisen who are troubled
in mind and ardently offer a faith to the rising
generation. The offer is generous, but unfor-
tunately the faith changes and deteriorates accord-
ing to the personality of the prophet who supplies
it. There are several kinds, but none of them
appear to me to be very clear or very well defined.

'You are asked to believe, but are not told pre-
cisely what you should believe. Perhaps it cannot
be told, or perhaps they dare not tell it.

'You are to bdieve for the pleasure of believing,
and especially that you may learn to believe. The

NON-ACTING 145

advice is not bad in itself — it is certainly a great
happiness to rest in the certainty of a faith, no
matter what it may be — but the worst of it is that
one is not master of this virtue : it bloweth where
it listeth.

*I am therefore also going to finish by proposing
to you a faith, and by beseeching you to have faith
in work. Work, young people! I well know how
trivial such advice appears: no speech-day passes
at which it is not repeated amid the general
indifference of the scholars. But I ask you to reflect
on it, and I — who have been nothing but a worker
— will permit myself to speak of all the benefit I
have derived from the long task that has filled
my life. I had no easy start in life; I have known
want and despair. Later on I lived in strife and
I live in it still — discussed, denied, covered with
abuse. Well, I have had but one faith, one strength
— work ! What has sustained me was the enormous
labour I set myself. Before me stood always in the
distance the goal towards which I was marching,
and when life's hardships had cast me down, that
sufficed to set me on my feet and to give me courage
to advance in spite of all. The work of which I
speak to you is the regular work, the daily task, the
duty one has undertaken to advance one step each
day towards the fulfilment of one's engagement.
How often in the morning have I sat down to my
table — my head in confusion — a bitter taste in my
mouth — tortured by some great sorrow, physical
or moral! And each time — in spite of the revolt
my suffering has caused — after the first moments
of agony my task has been to me an alleviation and
a comfort. I have always come from my daily
task consoled — with a broken heart perhaps, but
erect and able to live on till the morrow.

'Work ! Remember, gentlemen, that it is the sole

146 NON- ACTING

law of the world, the regulator bringing organic
matter to its unknown goal! Life has no other
meaning, no other raison d'etre; we each of us appear
but to perform our allotted task and to disappear.
One cannot define life otherwise than by the
movement it receives and bequeaths, and which is
in reality nothing but work, work at the final
achievement accomplished by all the ages. How,
therefore, can we be other than modest? How can
we do other than accept the individual task given
to each of us, and accept it without rebellion and
without yielding to the pride of that personal "I",
which considers itself a centre and does not wish
to take its place in the ranks?

4 From the time one accepts that task and begins
to fulfil it, it seems to me tranquillity should come
even to those most tormented. I know that there
are minds tortured by thoughts of the Infinite,
minds that suffer from the presence of mystery, and
it is to them I address myself as a brother, advising
them to occupy their lives with some immense
labour, of which it were even well that they should
never see the completion. It will be the balance
enabling them to march straight; it will be a con-
tinual diversion — grain thrown to their intelligence
that it may grind and convert it into daily bread, with
the satisfaction that comes of duty accomplished.

'It is true this solves no metaphysical problems;
it is but an empirical recipe enabling one to live
one's life honestly and more or less tranquilly; but
is it a small thing to obtain a sound state of moral
and physical health and to escape the danger of
dreams, while solving by work the question of
finding the greatest happiness possible on this earth?

'I have always, I admit, distrusted chimeras.
Nothing is less wholesome for men and nations than
illusion; it stifles effort, it blinds, it is the vanity of

NON-ACTING 147

the weak. To repose on legends, to be mistaken
about all realities, to believe that it is enough to
dream of force in order to be strong — we have seen
well enough to what terrible disasters such things
lead. The people are told to look on high, to
believe in a Higher Power, and to exalt themselves
to the ideal. No, no! That is language which at
times seems to me impious. The only strong people
are those who work, and it is only work that gives
courage and faith. To conquer it is necessary that
the arsenals should be full, that one should have
the strongest and the most perfect armament, that
the army should be trained, should have confidence
in its chiefs and in itself. All this can be acquired;
it needs but the will and the right method. You
may be well assured that the coming century and
the illimitable future belong to work. And in the
rising force of Socialism does one not already see
the rough sketch of the social law of to-morrow, the
law of work for all — liberating and pacifying work?
'Young men, young men, take up your duties!
Let each one accept his task, a task which should
fill his life. It may be very humble, it will not be
the less useful. Never mind what it is so long as
it exists and keeps you erect! When you have
regulated it, without excess— just the quantity you
are able to accomplish each day — it will cause you
to live in health and in joy: it will save you from
the torments of the Infinite. What a healthy and
great society that will be — a society each member
of which will bear his reasonable share of work !
A man who works is always kind. So I am con-
vinced that the only faith that can save us is a
belief in the efficacy of accomplished toil. Certainly
it is pleasant to dream of eternity. But for an honest
man it is enough to have lived his life doing his
work. EMILE ZOLA.'

148 NON-ACTING

M. Zola does not approve of this faith in some-
thing vague and ill-defined, which is recommended
to French youth by its new guides; yet he himself
advises belief in something which is neither clearer
nor better defined — namely, science and work.

A little-known Chinese philosopher named Lao-
Tsze, who founded a religion (the first and best
translation of his book, 'Of the Way of Virtue', is
that by Stanislaus Julien) , takes as the foundation
of his doctrine the Tao — a word that is translated
as 'reason, way, and virtue'. If men follow the law
of Tao they will be happy. But the Tao, according
to M. Julien's translation, can only be reached by
non-acting.

The ills of humanity arise, according to Lao-
Tsze, not because men neglect to do things that
are necessary, but because they do things that are
unnecessary. If men would, as he says, but practise
non-acting, they would be relieved not merely from
their personal calamities, but also from those in-
herent in all forms of government, which is the sub-
ject specially dealt with by the Chinese philosopher.

M. Zola tells us that everyone should work
persistently; work will make life healthy and joyous,
and will save us from the torment of the Infinite.
Work! But what are we to work at? The manu-
facturers of and the dealers in opium or tobacco or
brandy, all the speculators on the Stock Exchange,
the inventors and manufacturers of weapons of
destruction, the mf'tary, the gaolers and execu-
tioners— all work: but it is obvious that mankind
would be better off were these workers to cease
working.

But perhaps M. Zola's advice refers only to those
whose work is inspired by science. The greater
part of his speech is in fact designed to uphold
science, which he thinks is being attacked. Well,

NON-ACTING 149

it so happens that I am continually receiving from
various unappreciated authors the outcome of their
scientific labours — pamphlets, manuscripts, trea-
tises, and printed books.

One of them has finally solved, so he says, the
question of Christian gnosiology; another has
written a book on the cosmic ether; a third has
settled the social question; a fourth is editing a
theosophical review; a fifth (in a thick volume) has
solved the problem of the knight's tour in chess.

All these people work assiduously and work in
the name of science, but I do not think I am mis-
taken in saying that my correspondents' time and
work, and the time and work of many other such
people, have been spent in a way not merely use-
less but even harmful; for thousands of men are
engaged in making the paper, casting the type, and
manufacturing the presses needed to print their
books, and in feeding, clothing, and housing all
these scientific workers.

Work for science? But the word 'science' has so
large and so ill-defined a meaning that what some
consider science others consider futile folly; and
this is so not merely among the profane, but even
among men who are themselves priests of science.
While one set of the learned esteem jurisprudence,
philosophy, and even theology, to be the most
necessary and important of sciences, the Positivists
consider those very sciences to be childish twaddle
devoid of scientific value. And, vice versa, what
the Positivists hold to be the science of sciences —
sociology — is regarded by the theologians, philo-
sophers, and spiritualists as a collection of arbitrary
and useless observations and assertions. Moreover
even in one and the same branch, whether it be
philosophy or natural science, each system has its
ardent defenders and opponents, just as ardent and

150 NON-ACTING

equally competent, though maintaining diametri-
cally opposite views.

Lastly, does not each year produce its new
scientific discoveries, which after astonishing the
boobies of the whole world and bringing fame and
fortune to the inventors, are eventually admitted
to be ridiculous mistakes even by those who pro-
mulgated them?

We all know that what the Romans valued as the
greatest science and the most important occupation
that distinguished them from the barbarians was
rhetoric, which does not now rank as a science at
all. It is equally difficult to-day to understand the
state of mind of the learned men of the Middle Ages
who were fully convinced that all science was con-
centrated in scholasticism.

Unless then our century forms an exception
(which is a supposition we have no right to make),
it needs no great boldness to conclude by analogy
that among the kinds of knowledge occupying the
attention of our learned men and called science,
there must necessarily be some which will be
regarded by our descendants much as we now
regard the rhetoric of the ancients and the
scholasticism of the Middle Ages.

II

M. Zola's speech is chiefly directed against cer-
tain leaders who are persuading the young genera-
tion to return to religious beliefs, for M. Zola, as a
champion of science, considers himself an adversary
of theirs. Really he is nothing of the sort, for his
reasoning rests on the same basis as that of his
opponents, namely (as he himself admits), on faith.

It is a generally accepted opinion that religion
and science are opposed to one another. And they
really are so, but only in point of time; that is to

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say, what is considered science by one generation
often becomes religion for their descendants. Wha!
is usually spoken of as religion is generally the
science of the past, while what is called science is to
a great extent the religion of the present.

We say that the assertions of the Hebrews that
the world was created in six days, that sons vould
be punished for their father's sins, and that certain
diseases could be cured by the sight of a serpent,
were religious statements; while the assertions of
our contemporaries that the world created itself
by turning round a centre which is eve/y where,
that all the different species arose from th; struggle
for existence, that criminals are the product of
heredity, and that micro-organisms, slaped like
commas, exist which cause certain dseases — we
call scientific statements. By revertingin imagina-
tion to the state of mind of an anciert Hebrew it
becomes easy to see that for him the c cation of the
world in six days, the serpent that cired diseases,
and the like, were scientific statemnts in accord
with its highest stage of development, just as the
Darwinian law, Koch's commas, heredity, &c., are
for a man of our day.

And just as the Hebrew believe' not so much in
the creation of the world in six d#s, in the serpent
that healed certain diseases, anc so on, as in the
infallibility of his priests and therefore in all that
they told him — so to-day the great majority of
cultured people believe, not in ne formation of the
world by rotation, or in herediy, or in the comma
bacilli, but in the infallibility >f the secular priests
called scientists who, with a assurance equal to
that of the Hebrew priests, assert whatever they
pretend to know.

I will even go so far as tosay that if the ancient
priests, controlled by none bit their own colleagues,

1 52 NON-ACTING

allowed themselves at times to diverge from the
path of truth merely for the pleasure of astonishing
End mystifying their public, our modern priests
o? science do much the same thing and do it with
equal effrontery.

7he greater part of what is called religion is
simply the superstition of past ages; the greater
part of what is called science is simply the super-
stitioi of to-day. And I suppose that the propor-
tion 01 error and truth is much about the same in
the om as in the other. Consequently to work
in the rame of a faith, whether religious or scienti-
fic, is n%t merely a doubtful method of helping
humanity but is a dangerous method which may
do more iarm than good.

To conecrate one's life to the fulfilment of
duties imp%sed by religion — prayers, communions,
alms — or ox the other hand to devote it to some
scientific w<rk as M. Zola advises, is to run too
great a risk : br on the brink of death one may find
that the religious or scientific principle to whose
service one his consecrated one's whole life was
all a ridiculou error !

Even before eading the speech in which M. Zola
extols work of my kind as a merit, I was always
surprised by tk opinion, especially prevalent in
Western Europe that work is a kind of virtue. It
always seemed tcme that only an irrational being,
like the ant of he fable, could be excused for
exalting work to tie rank of a virtue and boasting
of it. M. Zola asures us that work makes men
kind; I have alwa-s observed the contrary. Not
to speak of selfish /vork aiming at the profit or
fame of the worke, which is always bad, self-
conscious work, the jide of work, makes not only
ants but men cruel. Vho does not know those men,
inaccessible to truth or to kindliness, who are

NON-ACTING 153

always so busy that they never have time either to
do good or even to ask themselves whether their
work is not harmful? You say to such people, 'Your
work is useless, perhaps even harmful. Here are
the reasons. Pause awhile and let us examine the
matter.' They will not listen to you, but scornfully
reply: 'It's all very well for you to argue. You
have nothing to do. But what time have I for
discussions? I have worked all my life, and work
does not wait; I have to edit a daily paper with
half a million subscribers; I have to organize the
army; I have to build the Eiffel Tower, to arrange
the Chicago Exhibition, to pierce the Isthmus of
Panama, to investigate the problem of heredity or
of telepathy, or of how many times this classical
author has used such and such words.'

The most cruel of men — the Neros, the Peter the
Greats — were constantly occupied, never remaining
for a moment at their own disposal without activity
or amusement.

If work be not actually a vice, it can from no
point of view be considered a virtue.

It can no more be considered a virtue than
nutrition. Work is a necessity, to be deprived of
which involves suffering, and to raise it to the rank
of a merit is as monstrous as it would be to do
the same for nutrition. The strange value our
society attaches to work can only be explained as
a reaction from the view held by our ancestors,
who thought idleness an attribute of nobility and
almost a merit, as indeed it is still regarded by
some rich and uneducated people to-day.

Work, the exercise of our organs, cannot be a
merit, because it is a necessity for every man and
every animal — as is shown alike by the capers of
a tethered calf and by the silly exercises to which
rich and well-fed people among ourselves are

154 NON- ACTING

addicted, who find no more reasonable or useful
employment for their mental faculties than reading
newspapers and novels Or playing chess or cards,
or for their muscles than gymnastics, fencing, lawn-
tennis, and racing.

In my opinion not only is work not a virtue, but
in our ill-organized society it is often a moral
anaesthetic, like tobacco, wine, and other means
of stupefying and blinding oneself to the disorder
and emptiness of our lives. And it is just as such
that M. Zola recommends it to young people.

Dumas says something quite different.

Ill

The following is the letter he sent to the editor
of the Gaulois :

'DEAR SIR,

'You ask my opinion of the aspirations which
seem to be arising among the students in the schools,
and of the polemics which preceded and followed
the incidents at the Sorbonne.

*I should prefer not to express my opinion further
on any matter whatever. Those who were of our
opinion will continue to be so for some time yet;
those who held other views will cling to them more
and more tenaciously. It would be better to have
no discussions. "Opinions are like nails," said a
moralist, a friend of mine: "the more one hits them
the more one drives them in."

'It is not that I have no opinion on what one
calls the great questions of life, and on the diverse
forms in which the mind of man momentarily
clothes the subjects of which it treats. Rather, that
opinion is so correct and absolute that I prefer to
keep it for my own guidance, having no ambition
to create anything or to destroy anything. I

NON-ACTING 155

should have to go back to great political, social,
philosophical and religious problems, and that
would take us too far, were I to follow you in the
study you are commencing of the small external
occurrences they have lately aroused, and that they
arouse in each new generation. Each new genera-
tion indeed comes with ideas and passions old as
life itself, which it believes no one has ever had
before, for it finds itself subject to their influence
for the first time and is convinced it is about to
change the aspect of everything.

'Humanity for thousands of years has been trying
to solve that great problem of cause and effect which
will perhaps take thousands of years yet to settle, if
indeed it ever is settled (as I think it should be).
Of this problem children of twenty declare that
they have an irrefutable solution in their quite
young heads. And as a first argument, at the first
discussion, one sees them hitting those who do not
share their opinions. Are we to conclude that this is
a sign that a whole society is readopting the religious
ideal which has been temporarily obscured and
abandoned? Or is it not, with all these young
apostles, simply a physiological question of warm
blood and vigorous muscles, such as threw the young
generation of twenty years ago into the opposite
movement? I incline to the latter supposition.

'He would indeed be foolish who in these mani-
festations of an exuberant period of life found proof
of development that was final or even durable.
There is in it nothing more than an attack of
growing fever. Whatever the ideas may be for the
sake of which these young people have been hitting
one another, we may safely wager that they will
resist them at some future day if their own children
reproduce them. Age and experience will have
come by that time.

154 NON-ACTING

addicted, who find no more reasonable or useful
employment for their mental faculties than reading
newspapers and novels 6r playing chess or cards,
or for their muscles than gymnastics, fencing, lawn-
tennis, and racing.

In my opinion not only is work not a virtue, but
in our ill-organized society it is often a moral
anaesthetic, like tobacco, wine, and other means
of stupefying and blinding oneself to the disorder
and emptiness of our lives. And it is just as such
that M. Zola recommends it to young people.

Dumas says something quite different.

Ill

The following is the letter he sent to the editor
of the Gaulois:

'DEAR SIR,

'You ask my opinion of the aspirations which
seem to be arising among the students in the schools,
and of the polemics which preceded and followed
the incidents at the Sorbonne.

'I should prefer not to express my opinion further
on any matter whatever. Those who were of our
opinion will continue to be so for some time yet;
those who held other views will cling to them more
and more tenaciously. It would be better to have
no discussions. "Opinions are like nails," said a
moralist, a friend of mine: "the more one hits them
the more one drives them in."

'It is not that I have no opinion on what one
calls the great questions of life, and on the diverse
forms in which the mind of man momentarily
clothes the subjects of which it treats. Rather, that
opinion is so correct and absolute that I prefer to
keep it for my own guidance, having no ambition
to create anything or to destroy anything. I

NON-ACTING 155

should have to go back to great political, social,
philosophical and religious problems, and that
would take us too far, were I to follow you in the
study you are commencing of the small external
occurrences they have lately aroused, and that they
arouse in each new generation. Each new genera-
tion indeed comes with ideas and passions old as
life itself, which it believes no one has ever had
before, for it finds itself subject to their influence
for the first time and is convinced it is about to
change the aspect of everything.

'Humanity for thousands of years has been trying
to solve that great problem of cause and effect which
will perhaps take thousands of years yet to settle, if
indeed it ever is settled (as I think it should be).
Of this problem children of twenty declare that
they have an irrefutable solution in their quite
young heads. And as a first argument, at the first
discussion, one sees them hitting those who do not
share their opinions. Are we to conclude that this is
a sign that a whole society is readopting the religious
ideal which has been temporarily obscured and
abandoned? Or is it not, with all these young
apostles, simply a physiological question of warm
blood and vigorous muscles, such as threw the young
generation of twenty years ago into the opposite
movement? I incline to the latter supposition.

'He would indeed be foolish who in these mani-
festations of an exuberant period of life found proof
of development that was final or even durable.
There is in it nothing more than an attack of
growing fever. Whatever the ideas may be for the
sake of which these young people have been hitting
one another, we may safely wager that they will
resist them at some future day if their own children
reproduce them. Age and experience will have
come by that time.

I56 NON-ACTING

'Sooner or later many of these combatants and
adversaries of to-day will meet on the cross-roads
of life, somewhat wearied, somewhat dispirited by
their struggle with realities, and hand-in-hand will
find their way back to the main road, regretfully
acknowledging that, in spite of all their early con-
victions, the world remains round and continues
always turning in one and the same direction, and
that the same horizons ever reappear under the
same infinite and fixed sky. After having disputed
and fought to their hearts' content, some in the
name of faith, others in the name of science, both
to prove there is a God, and to prove there is no
God (two propositions about which one might
fight for ever should it be decided not to disarm
till the case was proven), they will finally discover
that the one knows no more about it than the other,
but that what they may all be sure of is, that man
needs hope as much if not more than he needs
knowledge — that he suffers abominably from the
uncertainty he is in concerning the things of most
interest to him, that he is ever in quest of a better
state than that in which he now exists, and that he
should be left at full liberty, especially in the realms
of philosophy, to seek this happier condition.

'He sees around him a universe which existed
before he did and will last after he is gone; he feels
and knows it to be eternal and he would like to
share in its duration. From the moment he was
called to life he demanded his share of the perma-
nent life that surrounds him, raises him, mocks
him, and destroys him. Now that he has begun he
does not wish to end. He now loudly demands, now
in low tones pleads for, a certainty which ever
evades him — fortunately, since certain knowledge
would mean for him immobility and death, for
the most powerful motor of human energy is un-

NON-ACTING 157

certainty. And as he cannot reach certainty he
wanders to and fro in the vague ideal; and what-
ever excursions he may make into scepticism and
negation, whether from pride, curiosity, anger, or
for fashion's sake, he ever returns to the hope he
certainly cannot forgo. Like lovers' quarrels, it is
not for long.

'So there are at times obscurations, but never
any complete obliteration of the human ideal.
Philosophical mists pass over it like clouds that
pass before the moon ; . but the white orb, con-
tinuing its course, suddenly reappears from behind
them intact and shining. Man's irresistible need
of an ideal explains why he has accepted with such
confidence, such rapture, and without reason's con-
trol, the various religious formulas which, while
promising him the Infinite, have presented it to
him conformably with his nature, enclosing it in
the limits always necessary even to the ideal.

'But for centuries past, and especially during the
last hundred years, at each new stage new men,
more and more numerous, emerge from the dark-
ness, and in the name of reason, science, or observa-
tion, dispute the old truths, declare them to be
relative, and wish to destroy the formulas which
contain them.

'Who is in the right in this dispute? All are right
while they seek; none are right when they begin
to threaten. Between truth which is the aim, and
free inquiry to which all have a right, force is
quite out of place notwithstanding celebrated
examples to the contrary. Force merely drives
farther back that at which we aim. It is not merely
cruel, it is also useless, and that is the worst of
faults in all that concerns civilization. No blows,
however forcibly delivered, will ever prove the
existence or the non-existence of God.

158 NON- ACTING

'To conclude, or rather to come to an end — seeing
that the Power, whatever it be, that created the
world (which, I think, certainly cannot have
created itself) while using us as its instruments has
for the present reserved to itself the privilege of
knowing why it has made us and whither it is
leading us — seeing that this Power (in spite of all
the intentions attributed to it and all the demands
made upon it) appears ever more and more deter-
mined to guard its own secret — I believe, if I may
say all I think, that mankind is beginning to cease
to try to penetrate that eternal mystery. Mankind
went to religions, which proved nothing for they
differed among themselves; it went to philosophies,
which revealed no more for they contradicted one
another; and it will now try to find its way out of
the difficulty by itself, trusting to its own instinct
and its own simple good sense; and since mankind
finds itself here on earth without knowing why or
how, it is going to try to be as happy as it can with
just those means the earth supplies.

'Zola recently, in a remarkable address to
students, recommended to them work as a remedy
and even as a panacea for all the ills of life. Labor
improbus omnia vincit. The remedy is familiar, nor
is it less good on that account; but it is not, never
has been, and never will be, sufficient. Whether
he works with limbs or brain, man must have some
other aim than that of gaining his bread, making
a fortune, or becoming famous. Those who confine
themselves to such aims feel, even when they have
gained their object, that something is still lacking,
for no matter what we may say or what we may
be told, man has not only a body to be nourished,
an intelligence to be cultivated and developed, but
also assuredly a soul to be satisfied. That soul, too,
is incessantly at work, ever evolving towards light

NON-ACTING 159

and truth. And as long as it has not reached full
light and conquered the whole truth it will con-
tinue to torment man.

'Well! The soul never so harassed man, never
so dominated him, as it does to-day. It is as though
it were in the air we all breathe. The few isolated
souls that had separately desired the regeneration
of society have little by little sought one another
out, beckoned one another, drawn nearer, united,
comprehended one another, and formed a group,
a centre of attraction, towards which others now
fly from the four quarters of the globe like larks
towards a mirror. They have as it were formed
one collective soul, so that men in future may
realize together, consciously and irresistibly, the
approaching union and steady progress of nations
that were but recently hostile to one another. This
new soul I find and recognize in events seemingly
most calculated to deny it,

'These armaments of all nations, these threats
their representatives address to one another, this
recrudescence of race persecutions, these hostilities
among compatriots, and even these youthful
escapades at the Sorbonne, are all things of evil
aspect but not of evil augury. They are the last
convulsions of that which is about to disappear.
The social body is like the human body. Disease
is but a violent effort of the organism to throw off
a morbid and harmful element.

'Those who have profited, and expect for long
or for ever to continue to profit by the mistakes
of the past, are uniting to prevent any modification
of existing conditions. Hence these armaments
and threats and persecutions; but look carefully
and you will see that all this is quite superficial.
It is colossal but hollow. There is no longer any
soul in it — the soul has gone elsewhere; these

160 NON-ACTING

millions of armed men who are daily drilled to
prepare for a general war of extermination no
longer hate the men they are expected to fight, and
none of their leaders dares to proclaim this war.
As for the appeals, and even the threatening claims,
that rise from the suffering and the oppressed — a
great and sincere pity, recognizing their justice,
begins at last to respond from above.

'Agreement is inevitable, and will come at an
appointed time, nearer than is expected. I know
not if it be because I shall soon leave this earth
and the rays that are already reaching me from
below the horizon have disturbed my sight, but
I believe our world is about to begin to realize
the words, "Love one another," without however
being concerned whether a man or a God uttered
them.

'The spiritual movement one recognizes on all
sides and which so many naive and ambitious men
expect to be able to direct, will be absolutely
humanitarian. Mankind, which does nothing
moderately, is about to be seized with a frenzy, a
madness, of love. This will not of course happen
smoothly or all at once; it will involve misunder-
standings— even sanguinary ones perchance — so
trained and so accustomed have we been to hatred,
sometimes even by those whose mission it was to
teach us to love one another. But it is evident that
this great law of brotherhood must be accomplished
some day, and I am convinced that the time is
commencing when our desire for its accomplish-
ment will become irresistible. A. DUMAS.

1 June /, 1893.*

There is a great difference between Dumas's letter
and Zola's speech, not to mention the fact that
Zola seems to court the approval of the youths he

NON-ACTING 161

addresses, whereas Dumas's letter does not flatter
them or tell them they are important people and
that everything depends on them (which they
should never believe if they wish to be good for
anything) ; on the contrary, it points out to them
their habitual faults: their presumption and their
levity. The chief difference between these two
writings consists in the fact that Zola's speech aims
at keeping men in the path they are travelling, by
making them believe that what they know is just
what they need to know, and that what they are
doing is just what they ought to be doing — whereas
Dumas's letter shows them that they ignore what
is essential for them to know and do not live as
they ought to live.

The more fully men believe that humanity can
be led in spite of itself to a beneficial change in
its existence by some external self-acting force
(whether religion or science) — and that they need
only work in the established order of things — the
more difficult will it be to accomplish any beneficial
change, and it is chiefly in this respect that Zola's
speech errs.

On the contrary, the more fully men believe that
it depends on themselves to modify their mutual
relations, and that they can do this when they like
by loving each other instead of tearing each other
to pieces as they do at present — the more possible
will a change become. The more fully men let
themselves be influenced by this suggestion the
more will they be drawn to realize Dumas's pre-
diction. That is the great merit of his letter.

Dumas belongs to no party and to no religion : he
has as little faith in the superstitions of the past as
in those of to-day, and that is why he observes and
thinks and sees not only the present but the future
— as those did who in ancient times were called

1 62 NON- ACTING

seers. It will seem strange to those who in reading
a writer's works see only the contents of the book
and not the soul of the writer, that Dumas — the
author of La Dame aux Camelias, and of V Affaire
Clemenceau — that this same Dumas should see into
the future and should prophesy. But however
strange it may seem, prophecy making itself heard
not in the desert or on the banks of the Jordan from
the mouth of a hermit clothed in skins of beasts —
but published in a daily paper on the banks of the
Seine, remains none the less prophecy.

And Dumas's letter has all the characteristics of
prophecy: First, like all prophecy, it runs quite
counter to the general disposition of the people
among whom it makes itself heard; secondly, those
who hear it feel its truth they know not why; and
thirdly and chiefly it moves men to the realization
of what it foretells.

Dumas predicts that after having tried everything
else men will seriously apply to life the law of
brotherly love, and that this change will take place
much sooner than we expect. One may question
the nearness of this change or even its possibility,
but it is plain that should it take place it will solve
all contradictions and all difficulties, and will divert
all the evils with which the end of the century sees
us threatened.

The only objection, or rather the only question,
one can put to Dumas is this : 'If the love of one's
neighbour is possible and is inherent in human
nature, why have so many thousand years elapsed
(for the command to love God and one's neighbour
did not begin with Christ but had been given
already by Moses) without men who knew this
means of happiness having practised it? What
prevents the manifestation of a sentiment so natural
and so helpful to humanity? It is evidently not

NON-ACTING 163

enough to say, 'Love one another.' That has been
said for three thousand years past: it is incessantly
repeated from all pulpits, religious and even
secular; yet, instead of loving one another as they
have been bidden to do for so many centuries, men
continue to exterminate each other just the same.
In our day no one any longer doubts th.it if men
would help one another instead of tearing one
another to pieces — each seeking his own welfare,
that of his family, or that of his country — if they
would replace egotism by love, if they would
organize their life on collectivist instead of indi-
vidualist principles (as the socialists express it in
their wretched jargon), if they loved one another
as they love themselves, or if they even refrained
from doing to others what they do not wish to
have done to themselves (as has been well ex-
pressed for two thousand years past) the share of
personal happiness gained by each man would
be greater and human life in general would be
reasonable and happy instead of being what it
now is, a succession of contradictions and suffer-
ings.

No one doubts that if men continue to snatch
from one another the ownership of the soil and the
products of their labour, the revenge of those who
are deprived of the right to till the soil will not
much longer be delayed, but the oppressed will
retake with violence and vengeance all that of
which they have been robbed. No one doubts that
the arming of the nations will lead to terrible
massacres and the ruin and degeneration of all the
peoples enchained in the circle of armaments. No
one doubts that if the present order of things con-
tinues for some dozens of years longer it will lead
to a general breakdown. We have but to open
our eyes to see the abyss towards which we are

164 NON-ACTING

advancing. But the saying cited by Jesus seems
realized among the men of to-day : they have ears
that hear not, eyes that see not, and an intelligence
that does not understand.

Men of our day continue to live as they have
lived, and do not cease to do things that must
inevitably lead to their destruction. Moreover,
men of our world recognize if not the religious law
of love at least the moral rule of that Christian
principle: not to do to others what one does not
wish done to oneself; but they do not practise it.
Evidently there is some greater reason that pre-
vents their doing what is to their advantage, what
would save them from menacing dangers, and
what is dictated by the law of their God and by
their conscience. Must it be said that love applied
to life is a chimera? If so, how is it that for so
many centuries men have allowed themselves to
be deceived by this unrealizable dream? It were
time to see through it. But mankind can neither
decide to follow the law of love in daily life nor
to abandon the idea. How is this to be explained?
What is the reason of this contradiction lasting
through centuries? It is not that the men of our
time neither wish to, nor can, do what is dictated
alike by their good sense, by the dangers of their
situation, and above all by the law of him whom
they call God, and by their conscience — but it is
because they act just as M. Zola advises: they are
busy, they all labour at some work commenced
long ago and in which it is impossible to pause to
concentrate their thoughts or to consider what they
ought to be. All the great revolutions in men's
lives are made in thought. When a change takes
place in man's thought, action follows the direction
of thought as inevitably as a ship follows the direc-
tion given by its rudder.

NON-ACTING 165

IV

When he first preached, Jesus did not say, 'Love
one another' (he taught love later on to his dis-
ciples— men who had understood his teaching), but
he said what John the Baptist had preached before:
repentance, ^rdvoia — that is to say, a change in
the conception of life. MerayoeZre — change your
view of life or you will all peiish, said he. The
meaning of your life cannot consist in the pursuit of
your personal well-being, or in that of your family
or of your nation, lor such happiness can be ob-
tained only at the expense of others. Realize that
the meaning of your life can consist only in accom-
plishing the will of him that sent you into this life
and who demands of you not the pursuit of your
personal interests but the accomplishment of his
aims -the establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven,
as Jesus expressed it.

Mera^oetre, said he, 1,900 years ago — change
your way of understanding life, or you will all
perish; and he continues to repeat this to-day by
all the contradictions and woes of our time, which
all come from the fact that men have not listened
to him and have not accepted the understanding
of life he offered them. McTavoclrc, said he, or
you will all perish, and the alternative remains
the same to-day. The only difference is that now
it is more pressing. If it were possible 2,000 years
ago, in the time of the Roman Empire, in the days
of Charles V, or even before the Revolution and
the Napoleonic wars, not to see the vanity — I
will even say the absurdity — of attempts made
to obtain personal happiness, family happiness,
or national happiness, by struggling against all
those who sought the same personal, family, or
national happiness — that illusion has become quite

i66 NON-ACTING

impossible in our time for anyone who will pause
if but for a moment from his occupations, and will
reflect on what he is, on what the world around
him is, and on what he ought to be. So if I were
called on to give one single piece of advice, the
one I considered most useful for men of our cen-
tury, I should say this to them: 'For God's sake
pause a moment, cease your work, look around
you, think of what you are and of what you ought
to be — think of the ideal.'

M. Zola says that people should not look on high,
or believe in a Higher Power, or exalt themselves
to the ideal. Probably M. Zola understands by
the word 'ideal' either the supernatural — that is to
say, the theological rubbish about the Trinity, the
Church, the Pope, &c. — or else the unexplained, as
he calls the forces of the vast world in which we
are plunged. And in that case men would do well
to follow M. Zola's advice. But the fact is that the
ideal is neither supernatural nor 'unexplained'.
On the contrary the ideal is the most natural of
things; I will not say it is the most 'explained', but
it is that of which man is most sure.

An ideal in geometry is the perfectly straight
line or the circle whose radii are all equal; in
science it is exact truth; in morals it is perfect
virtue. Though these things — the straight line, the
exact truth, and perfect virtue — have never existed,
they are not only more natural to us, more known
and more explicable than all our other knowledge,
but they are the only things we know truly and with
complete certainty.

It is commonly said that reality is that which
exists, or that only what exists is real. Just the
contrary is the case: true reality, that which we
really know, is what has never existed. The ideal
is the only thing we know with certainty, and it has

NON-ACTING 167

never existed. It is only thanks to the ideal that
we know anything at all ; and that is why the ideal
alone can guide us in our lives either individually
or collectively. The Christian ideal has stood
before us for nineteen centuries. It shines to-day
with such intensity that it needs great effort to
avoid seeing that all our woes arise from the fact
that we do not accept its guidance. But the more
difficult it becomes to avoid seeing this, the more
some people increase their efforts to persuade us
to do as they do: to close our eyes in order not to
see. To be quite sure to reach port, they say, the
first thing to do is to throw the compass overboard
and forge ahead. Men of our Christian world are
like people who strain themselves in the effort to
get rid of some object that spoils life for them, but
who in their hurry have no time to agree, and all
pull in different directions. It would be enough
to-day for man to pause in his activity and to
reflect — comparing the demands of his reason and
his heart with the actual conditions of life — in order
to perceive that his whole life and all his actions
are in incessant and glaring contradiction to his
reason and his heart. Ask each man of our time
separately what are the moral bases of his conduct,
and he will almost always tell you that they are
the principles of Christianity or at least of justice,
And in saying so he will be sincere. According to
their consciences all men should live as Christians ;
but see how they behave: they behave like wild
beasts. So that for the great majority of men in
our Christian world the organization of their life
corresponds not to their way of perceiving or feeling,
but to certain forms once necessary for other people
with quite different perceptions of life, and now
existing merely because the constant bustle men
live in allows them no time for reflection.

1 68 NON-ACTING

If in former times (when the evils produced by
pagan life were not so evident, and especially when
Christian principles were not yet so generally
accepted) men were able conscientiously to uphold
the servitude of the workers, the oppression of man
by man, penal law, and, above all, war- — it has now
become quite impossible to explain the raison
d'etre of such institutions. In our time men may
continue to live a pagan life but they cannot
excuse it.

In order to change their way of living and feeling,
men must first of all change their way of thinking;
and that such a change may take place they must
pause and attend to the things they ought to under-
stand. To hear what is shouted to them by those
who wish to save them, men who run towards a
precipice singing must cease their clamour and
must stop.

Let men of our Christian world only stop their
work and reflect for a moment on their condition,
and they will involuntarily be led to accept the
conception of life given by Christianity — a con-
ception so natural, so simple, and responding so
completely to the needs of the mind and the heart
of humanity that it will arise, almost of itself, in
the understanding of anyone who has freed himself
were it but for a moment from the entanglements
in which he is held by the complications of work —
his own and that of others.

The feast has been ready for nineteen centuries;
but one will not come because he has just bought
some land, another because he has married, a third
because he has to try his oxen, a fourth because he
is building a railway, a factory, is engaged on
missionary service, is busy in Parliament, in a

NON-ACTING 169

bank, or on some scientific, artistic, or literary
work. During 2,000 years no one has had leisure
to do what Jesus advised at the beginning of his
ministry: to look round him, think of the results
of his work, and ask himself: What am I ? Why do
I live? Is it possible that the power that has pro-
duced me, a reasoning being with a desire to love
and be loved, has done this only to deceive me,
so that having imagined the aim of life to be my
personal well-being — that my life belonged to me
and that I had the right to dispose of it, as well as
of the lives of others, as seemed best to me — I come
at last to the conviction that this well-being that I
aimed at (personal, family, or national) cannot be
attained, and that the more I strive to reach it
the more I find myself in conflict with my reason
and my wish to love and be loved, and the more
I experience disenchantment and suffering?

Is it not more probable that, having come into
the world not by my own will but by the will of
him who sent me, my reason and my wish to love
and be loved were given to guide me in doing that
will?

Once this /zeremua is accomplished in men's
thought and the pagan and egotistic conception of
life has been replaced by the Christian conception,
the love of one's neighbour will become more
natural than struggle and egotism now are. And
once the love of one's neighbour becomes natural
to man the new conditions of Christian life will
come about spontaneously, just as the crystals
begin to form in a liquid saturated with salt as soon
as one ceases to stir it.

And for this to result, and that men may organize
their life in conformity with their consciences, they
need expend no positive effort; they need only
pause in what they are now doing. If men spent

170 NON- ACTING

but a hundredth part of the energy they now devote
to material activities — disapproved of by their own
consciences — to elucidating as completely as pos-
sible the demands of that conscience, expressing
them clearly, spreading them abroad, and above
all putting them in practice, the change which
M. Dumas and all the prophets have foretold
would be accomplished among us much sooner and
more easily than we suppose, and men would ac-
quire the good that Jesus promised them in his
glad tidings: 'Seek the Kingdom of Heaven, and
all these things shall be added unto you.*

[August 9, o.s., 1893.]

Tolstoy wrote this essay first in Russian, and then
(after a misleading translation had appeared in France)
in French also. The second version differed in arrange-
ment from the first, and has, at Tolstoy's own request,
been relied upon in preparing the present translation.
In a few places, however — and especially by including
Zola's speech and Dumas's letter in full — the earlier
version has been followed. — A. M.

AFTERWORD TO AN ACCOUNT OF
RELIEF TO THE FAMINE-STRICKEN
IN THE GOVERNMENT OF TtfLA IN
1891 AND 1892

OUR two years' experience in distributing among
a suffering population contributions that passed
through our hands have quite confirmed our long-
established conviction that most of the want and
destitution — and the suffering and grief that go
with them — which we have tried almost in vain to
counteract by external means in one small corner
of Russia, has arisen not from some exceptional,
temporary cause independent of us, but from general
permanent causes quite dependent on us and con-
sisting entirely in the antichristian, unbrotherly
relations maintained by us educated people towards
the poor simple labourers who constantly endure
distress and want and the accompanying bitterness
and suffering — things that have merely been more
conspicuous than usual during the past two years.
If this year we do not hear of want, cold, and
hunger — of the dying-off by hundreds of thousands
of adults worn out with overwork, and of underfed
old people and children — this is not because these
things will not occur, but only because we shall
not see them — shall forget about them, shall assure
ourselves that they do not exist, or that if they do
they are inevitable and cannot be helped.

But such assurances are untrue: not only is it
possible for these things not to exist, but they
ought not to exist, and the time is coming when they
will not exist — and that time is near.

However well the wine cup may seem to us to be
hidden from the labouring classes — however art-
ful, ancient, and generally accepted may be the

172 AN AFTERWORD

excuses wherewith we justify our life of luxury amid
a working folk who, crushed with toil and under-
icd, supply our luxury — the light is penetrating
more and more into our relations with the people,
and we shall soon appear in the shameful and
dangerous position of a criminal whom the un-
expected dawn of day exposes on the scene of his
crime. If a dealer disposing of harmful or worthless
goods among the working folk and trying to charge
as much as possible —or disposing even of good and
needful bread, but bread which he had bought
cheap and was selling dear — could formerly have
said he was serving the needs of the people by
honest trade ; or if a manufacturer of cotton prints,
looking-glasses, cigarettes, spirits, or beer could
say that he was feeding his workmen by giving
them employment; or if an official receiving hun-
dreds of pounds a year salary collected in taxes
from the people's last pence, could assure himself
that he was working for the people's good; or (a
thing specially noticeable these last years in the
famine-stricken districts) if formerly a landlord
could say (to peasants who worked his land for less
pay than would buy them bread, or to those who
hired land of him at rack-rent) that by introducing
improved methods of agriculture he was promoting
the prosperity of the rural population : if all this
were formerly possible, now at least, when people
are dying of hunger for lack of bread amid wide
acres belonging to landlords and planted with
potatoes intended for distilling spirits or making
starch — these things can no longer be said. It has
become impossible, surrounded by people who
are dying out for want of food and from excess of
work, not to see that all we consume of the product
of their work, on the one hand deprives them of
what they need for food and on the other hand

AN AFTERWORD 173

increases the work which already taxes their
strength to the utmost. Not to speak of the in-
sensate luxury of parks, conservatories, and hunting,
every glass of wine, every bit of sugar, butter, or
meat is so much food taken from the people and
so much labour added to their task.

We Russians are specially well situated for seeing
our position clearly. I remember, long before
these famine years, how a young and morally sensi-
tive savant from Prague who visited me in the
country in winter — on coming out of the hut of
a comparatively well-to-do peasant at which we
had called and in which, as everywhere, there was
an overworked, prematurely aged woman in rags,
a sick child who had ruptured itself while scream-
ing, and, as everywhere in spring, a tethered calf
and a ewe that had lambed, and dirt and damp,
and foul air, and a dejected, careworn peasant —
I remember how, on coming out of the hut, my
young acquaintance began to say something to me,
when suddenly his voice broke and he wept. For
the first time, after some months spent in Moscow
and Petersburg — where he had walked along
asphalted pavements, past luxurious shops, from
one rich house to another, and from one rich
museum, library, or palace to other similar grand
buildings — he saw for the first time those whose
labour supplies all that luxury, and he was amazed
and horrified. To him, in rich and educated
Bohemia (as to every man of Western Europe,
especially to a Swede, a Swiss, or a Belgian), it
might seem (though incorrectly) that where com-
parative liberty exists — where education is general,
where everyone has a chance to enter the ranks
of the educated — luxury is a legitimate reward of
labour and does not destroy human life. He might
manage to forget the successive generations of men

174 AN AFTERWORD

who mine the coal by the use of which most of the
articles of our luxury are produced, he might
forget — since they are out of sight — the men of
other races in the colonies, who die out working to
satisfy our whims; but we Russians cannot share
such thoughts: the connexion between our luxury
and the sufferings and' deprivations of men of the
same race as ourselves is too evident. We cannot
avoid seeing the price paid in human lives for our
comfort and our luxury.

For us the sun has risen and we cannot hide what
is obvious. We can no longer hide behind govern-
ment, behind the necessity of ruling the people,
behind science, or art — said to be necessary for the
people — or behind the sacred rights of property
or the necessity of upholding the traditions of our
forefathers, and so forth. The sun has risen, and
these transparent veils no longer hide anything
from anyone. Everyone sees and knows that those
who serve the government do so not for the welfare
of the people (who never asked for their service),
but simply because they want their salaries; and
that people engaged on science and art are so
engaged not to enlighten the people but for pay
and pensions: and that those who withhold land
from the people and raise its price, do this not to
maintain any sacred rights but to increase the
incomes they require to satisfy their own caprices.
To hide this and to lie is no longer possible.

Only two paths are open to the governing classes
— the rich and the non-workers: one way is to
repudiate not only Christianity in its true meaning,
but hurnanitarianisrn, justice, and everything like
them, and to say: *I hold these privileges and
advantages and come what may I mean to keep
them. Whoever wishes to take them from me will
have me to reckon with. The power is in my hands :

AN AFTERWORD 175

the soldiers, the gallows, the prisons, the scourge,
and the courts.'

The other way is to confess our fault, to cease
to lie, to repent, and to go to the assistance of the
people not with words only, or — as has been done
during these last two years — with pence that have
first been wrung from them at the cost of pain and
suffering, but by breaking down the artificial
barrier existing between us and the working people
and acknowledging them to be our brothers not
in words but in deeds : altering our way of life, re-
nouncing the advantages and privileges we possess,
and, having renounced them, standing on an equal
footing with the people, and together with them
obtaining those blessings of government, science, and
civilization which we now seek to supply them
with from outside without consulting their wishes.

We stand at the parting of the ways and a choice
must be made.

The first path involves condemning oneself to
perpetual falsehood, to continual fear that our lies
may be exposed, and to the consciousness that
sooner or later we shall inevitably be ousted from
the position to which we have so obstinately clung.

The second path involves the voluntary accep-
tance and practice of what we already profess and
of what is demanded by our heart and our reason —
of what sooner or later will be accomplished if not
by us then by others — for in this renunciation of
their power by the powerful lies the only possible
escape from the ills our pseudo-Christian world is
enduring. Escape lies only through the renunciation
of a false and the confession of a true Christianity.

[October 28, o.s., 1893.]

This Afterword, written by Tolst6y as a conclusion to
his Account relating to the famine of 1891 and 1892, was
suppressed in Russia at that time. — A. M.

MODERN SCIENCE1

> Aoyos* ioo$ avriKelrai.*

T THINK this article of Carpenter's on Modern
JL Science should be particularly useful in Russian
society, where more than anywhere else in Europe,
there is a prevalent and deeply rooted supersti-
tion which considers that humanity does not need
the diffusion of true religious and moral knowledge
for its welfare, but only the study of experimental
science, and that such science will satisfy all the
spiritual demands of mankind.

It is evident how harmful an influence (quite
like that of religious superstition) so gross a
superstition must have on man's moral life. And
therefore the publication of the thoughts of writers
who treat experimental science and its method
critically is specially desirable in our society.

Carpenter shows that neither astronomy, nor
physics, nor chemistry, nor biology, nor sociology
supplies us with true knowledge of actual facts; that
all the laws discovered by those sciences are merely
generalizations having but an approximate value
as laws, and that only as long as we do not know, or
leave out of account, certain other factors; and that
even these laws seem laws to us only because we
discover them in a region so far away from us in
time and space that we cannot detect their non-
correspondence with actual fact.

Moreover Carpenter points out that the method
of science which consists in explaining things near

1 Written as preface to a Russian translation, by Count
Scrgius Tolstoy, of Edward Carpenter's essay, Modern Science:
a Criticism) which forms part of Civilization: its Cause and Cure. —
A.M.

2 To every argument an equal argument is matched.

MODERN SCIENCE 177

and important to us by things more remote and
indifferent, is a false method which can never
bring us to the desired result.

He says that every science tries to explain the
facts it is investigating by means of conceptions
of a lower order. 'Each science has been as far
as possible reduced to its lowest terms. Ethics has
been made a question of utility and inherited
experience. Political economy has been exhausted
of all conceptions of justice between man and man,
of charity, affection, and the instinct of solidarity,
and has been founded on its lowest discoverable
factor, namely, self-interest. Biology has been
denuded of the force of personality in plants,
animals, and men; the "self" here has been set
aside and an attempt made to reduce the science
to a question of chemical and cellular affinities,
protoplasm, and the laws of osmose. Chemical
affinities again, and all the wonderful phenomena
of physics are reduced to a flight of atoms; and the
flight of atoms (and of astronomic orbs as well) is
reduced to the laws of dynamics.5

It is supposed that the reduction of questions of
a higher order to questions of a lower order will
explain the former. But an explanation is never
obtained in this way. What happens is merely that,
descending ever lower and lower in one's investiga-
tions, from the most important questions to less
important ones, science reaches at last a sphere
quite foreign to man, with which he is barely in
touch, and confines its attention to that sphere,
leaving all unsolved the questions most important
to him.

It is as if a man, wishing to understand the use
of an object lying before him — instead of coming
close to it, examining it from all sides and handling
it — were to retire farther and farther from it until

178 MODERN SCIENCE

he was at such a distance that all its peculiarities
of colour and inequalities of surface had disap-
peared and only its outline was still visible against
the horizon ; and as if from there he were to begin
writing a minute description of the object, imagin-
ing that now at last he clearly understood it, and
that this understanding, formed at such a distance,
would assist a complete comprehension of it. It
is this self-deception that is partly exposed by
Carpenter's criticism, which shows first that the
knowledge afforded us by the natural sciences
amounts merely to convenient generalizations
which certainly do not express actual facts; and
secondly that facts of a higher order will never be
explained by reducing them to facts of a lower
order.

But without predetermining the question whether
experimental science will, or will not, by its
methods, ever bring us to the solution of the most
serious problems of human life, the activity of
experimental science itself, in its relation to the
eternal and most reasonable demands of man, is
so anomalous as to be amazing.

People must live. But in order to live they must
know how to live. And men have always obtained
this knowledge — well or ill — and in conformity
with it have lived and progressed. ^Vnd this know-
ledge of how men should live has — from the days
of Moses, Solon, and Confucius — always been con-
sidered a science, the very essence of science. Only
in our time has it come to be considered that the
science telling us how to live is not a science at all,
but that the only real science is experimental science
— commencing with mathematics and ending in
sociology.

And a strange misunderstanding results.

A plain reasonable working man supposes, in the

MODERN SCIENCE 179

old way which is also the common-sense way, that
if there are people who spend their lives in study,
whom he feeds and keeps while they think for
him — then no doubt these men are engaged in
studying things men need to know; and he expects
science to solve for him the questions on which his
welfare and that of all men depends. He expects
science to tell him how he ought to live: how to
treat his family, his neighbours and the men of
other tribes, how to restrain his passions, what to
believe in and what not to believe in, and much
else. But what does our science say to him on
these matters?

It triumphantly tells him how many million miles
it is from the earth to the sun; at what rate light
travels through space ; how many million vibrations
of ether per second are caused by light, and how
many vibrations of air by sound; it tells of the
chemical components of the Milky Way, of a new
element — helium — of micro-organisms and their
excrements, of the points on the hand at which
electricity collects, of X-rays, and similar things.

'But I don't want any of those things,' says a
plain and reasonable man — 'I want to know how
to live.'

'What does it matter what you want?' replies
science. 'What you are asking about relates to
sociology. Before replying to sociological ques-
tions, we have yet to solve questions of zoology,
botany, physiology, and biology in general ; but to
solve those questions we have first to solve questions
of physics, and then of chemistry, and have also to
agree as to the shape of the infinitesimal atoms, and
how it is that imponderable and incompressible
ether transmits energy.'

And people — chiefly those who sit on the backs
of others, and to whom it is therefore convenient

i8o MODERN SCIENCE

to wait — are content with such replies, and sit
blinking and awaiting the fulfilment of these
promises; but plain and reasonable working men
— such as those on whose backs these others sit
while occupying themselves with science — the
whole great mass of men, the whole of humanity,
cannot be satisfied by such answers, but naturally
ask in perplexity: 'But when will this be done?
We cannot wait. You say that you will discover
these things after some generations. But we are
alive now — alive to-day and dead to-morrow — and
we want to know how to live our life while we
have it. So teach us!'

'What a stupid and ignorant man!' replies
science. 'He does not understand that science
exists not for use, but for science. Science studies
whatever presents itself for study, and cannot
select the subjects to be studied. Science studies
everything. That is the characteristic of science.5

And scientists are really convinced that to be
occupied with trifles, while neglecting what is more
essential and important, is a characteristic not of
themselves but of science. The plain, reasonable
man, however, begins to suspect that this charac-
teristic pertains not to science, but to men who
are inclined to occupy themselves with trifles and
to attach great importance to those trifles.

'Science studies everything,' say the scientists. But,
really, everything is too much. Everything is an
infinite quantity of objects ; it is impossible at one
and the same time to study everything. As a lantern
cannot light up everything, but only lights up the
place on which it is turned or the direction in
which the man carrying it is walking, so also
science cannot study everything, but inevitably
only studies that to which its attention is directed.
And as a lantern lights up most strongly the things

MODERN SCIENCE 181

nearest to it, and less and less strongly the things
that are more and more remote from it, and does
not light up at all those things beyond its reach,
so also human science of whatever kind has always
studied and still studies most carefully what seems
most important to the investigators, less carefully
what seems to them less important, and quite
neglects the whole remaining infinite quantity of
objects. And what has defined and still defines
for men the subjects they are to consider most
important, less important, and unimportant, is the
general understanding of the meaning and purpose
of life (that is to say, the religion) possessed by
those who occupy themselves with science. But
men of science to-day — not acknowledging any
religion, and having therefore no standard by
which to choose the subjects most important for
study, or to discriminate them from less important
subjects and, ultimately, from that infinite quantity
of objects which the limitations of the human mind,
and the infinity of the number of those objects,
will always cause to remain uninvestigated — have
formed for themselves a theory of 'science for
science's sake', according to which science is to
study not what mankind needs, but everything.

And indeed experimental science studies every-
thing, not in the sense of the totality of objects,
but in the sense of disorder — chaos in the arrange-
ment of the objects studied. That is to say, science
does not devote most attention to what people
most need, less to what they need less, and none
at all to what is quite useless; it studies anything
that happens to come to hand. Though Comte's
and other classifications of the sciences exist, these
classifications do not govern the selection of subjects
for study; that selection is dependent on the human
weaknesses common to men of science as well as to

1 82 MODERN SCIENCE

the rest of mankind. So that in reality scientists do
not study everything, as they imagine and declare;
they study what is more profitable and easier to
study. And it is more profitable to study things
that conduce to the well-being of the upper classes,
with whom the men of science are connected ; and it
is easier to study things that lack life. Accordingly,
many men of science study books, monuments, and
inanimate bodies.

Such study is considered the most real 'science'.
So that in our day what is considered to be the
most real 'science', the only one (as the Bible was
considered the only book worthy of the name), is
not the contemplation and investigation of how to
make the life of man more kindly and more happy,
but the compilation and copying from many books
into one, of all that our predecessors wrote on a
certain subject, the pouring of liquids out of one
glass bottle into another, the skilful slicing of
microscopic preparations, the cultivation of bac-
teria, the cutting up of frogs and dogs, the investiga-
tion of X-rays, the theory of numbers, the chemical
composition of the stars, &c.

Meanwhile all those sciences which aim at
making human life kindlier and happier — religious,
moral, and social science — are considered by the
dominant science to be unscientific, and are aban-
doned to the theologians, philosophers, jurists, his-
torians, and political economists, who under the
guise of scientific investigation are chiefly occupied
in demonstrating that the existing order of society
(the advantages of which they enjoy) is the very
one which ought to exist, and that therefore it
must not only not be changed, but must be main-
tained by all means.

Not to mention theology and jurisprudence,
political economy — the most advanced of the

MODERN SCIENCE 183

sciences of this group — is remarkable in this respect.
The most prevalent political economy (that of
Karl Marx),1 accepting the existing order of life
as though it were what it ought to be, not only
does not call on men to alter that order — that is to
say, does not point out to them how they ought
to live that their condition may improve — but on
the contrary demands an increase in the cruelty
of the existing order of things, that its more-than-
questionable predictions concerning what will
happen if people continue to live as badly as they
are now living may be fulfilled.

And as always occurs, the lower a human activity
descends — the more widely it diverges from what it
should be — the more its self-confidence increases.
That is just what has happened with the science
of to-day. True science is never appreciated by its
contemporaries, but on the contrary is usually
persecuted. Nor can this be otherwise. True
science shows men their mistakes, and points to
new, unaccustomed ways of life. And both these
services are unpleasant to the ruling section of
society. But present-day science not only does not
run counter to the tastes and demands of the ruling
section of society; it quite complies with them. It
satisfies idle curiosity, excites people's wonder, and
promises them increase of pleasure. And so,
whereas all that is truly great is calm, modest, and
unnoticed, the science of to-day knows no limits
to its self-laudation.

'All former methods were erroneous, and all that

1 From the Marxian point of view improvement can be
inflicted on a people by external pressure, and there are
witnesses to say that this has been accomplished in Russia.
But it remains to be proved whether mankind can be made
better or happier without freedom of thought or a religious
understanding of life. Tor the things which are seen are
temporal, but the things that are not seen are eternal.'— A. M.

184 MODERN SCIENCE

used to be considered science was an imposture,
a blunder, and of no account. Only our method
is true, and the only true science is ours. The suc-
cess of our science is such that thousands of years
have not done what we have accomplished in the
last century. In the future, travelling the same
path, our science will solve all questions and make
all mankind happy. Our science is the most im-
portant activity in the world, and we men of
science are the most important and necessary people
in the world.'

So think and say the scientists of to-day, and the
cultured crowd echo it, but really at no previous
time and among no people has science — the whole
of science with all its knowledge — stood on so low
a level as at present. One part of it, which should
study the things that make human life kind and
happy, is occupied in justifying the existing evil
order of society; another part is engaged in solving
questions of idle curiosity.

'What? — Idle curiosity?5 I hear voices ask in
indignation at such blasphemy. 'What about
steam and electricity and telephones, and all our
technical improvements? Not to speak of their
scientific importance, see what practical results
they have produced! Man has conquered Nature
and subjugated its forces' . . . with more to the
same effect.

'But all the practical results of the victories over
Nature have till now — for a considerable time
past — gone to factories that injure the workmen's
health, have produced weapons to kill men with,
and increased luxury and corruption' — replies a
plain, reasonable man — 'and therefore the victory
of man over Nature has not only failed to increase
the welfare of human beings, but has on the con-
trary made their condition worse.*

MODERN SCIENCE 185

If the arrangement of society is bad (as ours is),
and a small number of people have power over the
majority and oppress it, every victory over Nature
will inevitably serve only to increase that power
and that oppression. That is what is actually
happening.

With a science which aims not at studying how
people ought to live, but at studying whatever
exists — and which is therefore occupied chiefly in
investigating inanimate things while allowing the
order of human society to remain as it is — no
improvements, no victories over Nature, can better
the state of humanity.

'But medical science? You are forgetting the
beneficent progress made by medicine. And
bacteriological inoculations? And recent surgical
operations?' exclaim the defenders of science —
adducing as a last resource the success of medical
science to prove the utility of all science. 'By
inoculations we can prevent illness, or can cure
it; we can perform painless operations: cut open
a man's inside and clean it out, and can straighten
hunchbacks,' is what is usually said by the de-
fenders of present-day science, who seem to think
that the curing of one child from diphtheria, among
those Russian children of whom 50 per cent, (and
even 80 per cent, in the Foundling Hospitals) die
as a regular thing apart from diphtheria — must
convince anyone of the beneficence of science in
general.

Our life is so arranged that not children only
but a majority of people die from bad food, exces-
sive and harmful work, bad dwellings and clothes,
or want, before they have lived half the years that
should be theirs. The order of things is such that
children's illnesses, consumption, syphilis, and alco-
holism, seize an ever-increasing number of victims,

1 86 MODERN SCIENCE

while a great part of men's labour is taken from
them to prepare for wars, and every ten or
twenty years millions of men are slaughtered in
wars; and all this because science, instead of
supplying correct religious, moral, and social ideas
which would cause these ills to disappear of them-
selves, is occupied on the one hand in justifying
the existing order, and on the other hand with
toys. And in proof of the fruitfulness of science
we are told that it cures one in a thousand of the
sick, who are sick only because science has neglected
its proper business.

Yes, if science would devote but a small part of
those efforts and that attention and labour which
it now spends on trifles, to supplying men with
correct religious, moral, social, or even hygienic
ideas, there would not be a one-hundredth part
of the diphtheria, the diseases of the womb, or the
deformities, the occasional cure of which now makes
science so proud, though such cures are effected
in clinical hospitals the cost of whose luxurious
appointments is too great for them to be at the
service of all who need them.

It is as though men who had ploughed badly,
and sown badly with poor seeds, were to go over
the ground tending some broken ears of corn and
trampling on others that grew alongside, and were
then to exhibit their skill in healing the injured
ears as a proof of their knowledge of agriculture.

Our science, in order to become science and to be
really useful and not harmful to humanity, must
first of all renounce its experimental method, which
causes it to consider as its duty the study merely
of what exists, and must return to the only reason-
able and fruitful conception of science, which is
that the object of science is to show how people
ought to live. Therein lies the aim and importance

MODERN SCIENCE 187

of science; and the study of things as they exist can
only be a subject for science in so far as that study
helps towards the knowledge of how men should
live.

It is just to the admission by experimental
science of its own bankruptcy, and to the need of
adopting another method, that Carpenter draws
attention in this article.

[2898.-]

Chapter XX of What i? Art? forms a companion article
to the above essay. They were both written at the same
period and deal with the same topic. — A. M.

AN INTRODUCTION TO RUSKIN'S
WORKS

JOHN RUSKIN is one of the most remarkable men
not only of England and of our generation, but
of all countries and times. He is one of those rare
men who think with their hearts ('les grandes
pensees viennent du rai/r'), and so he thinks and says
what he has himself seen and felt, and what
everyone will think and say in the future.

Ruskin is recognized in England as a writer and
art-critic, but he is not spoken of as a philosopher,
political economist, and Christian moralist — just
as Matthew Arnold and Henry George are not so
spoken of either in England or America. Ruskin's
power of thought and expression is, however, such
that — in spite of the unanimous opposition he met
with and still meets with, especially among the
orthodox economists (even the most radical of
them) who cannot but attack him since he destroys
their teaching at its very roots — his fame grows
and his thoughts penetrate among the public.
Epigraphs of striking force taken from his works
are to be found more and more often in English
books.

LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE

To T. M. Bdndarsv, who had written from Sibena asking
for information about the Single- Tax.

THIS is Henry George's plan:
The advantage and convenience of using land
is not everywhere the same; there will always be
many applicants for land that is fertile, well
situated, or near a populous place; and the better
and more profitable the land the more people will
wish to have it. All such land should therefore be
valued according to its advantages: the more
profitable — dearer; the less profitable — cheaper.
Land for which there are few applicants should
not be valued at all, but allotted gratuitously to
those who wish to work it themselves.

With such a valuation of the land — here in the
Tula Government, for instance good arable land
might be estimated at about 5 or 6 rubles1 the
desyatin;2 kitchen-gardens in the villages at about
10 rubles the desyatin; meadows that are fertilized
by spring floods at about 15 rubles, and so on. In
towns the valuation would be 100 to 500 rubles the
desyatfn, and in crowded parts of Moscow or
Petersburg, or at the landing-places of navigable
rivers, it would amount to several thousands or
even tens of thousands of rubles the desyatin.

When all the land in the country has been valued
in this way, Henry George proposes that a law
should be made by which, after a certain date in
a certain year, the land should no longer belong
to any one individual, but to the whole nation —

1 The ruble was then a little more than 25 pence.
* The desyatin is nearly $% acres.

igo LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE

the whole people; and that everyone holding land
should therefore pay to the nation (that is, to the
whole people) the yearly value at which it has been
assessed. This payment should be used to meet
all public or national expenses, and should replace
all other rates, taxes, or customs dues.

The result of this would be that a landed pro-
prietor who now holds, say, 2,000 desyatfns, might
continue to hold them if he liked, but he would have
to pay to the treasury — here in the Tula Govern-
ment for instance (as his holding would include
both meadow-land and homestead) — 12,000 or
15,000 rubles a year; and, as no large landowners
could stand such a payment, they would all
abandon their land. But it would mean that a
Tula peasant in the same district would pay a
couple of rubles per desyatin less than he pays
now, and could have plenty of available land near
by which he could take up at 5 or 6 rubles per
desyatin. Besides this, he would have no other
rates or taxes to pay, and would be able to buy all
the things he requires, foreign or Russian, free of
duty. In towns, the owners of houses and factories
might continue to own them, but would have to
pay to the public treasury the amount of the
assessment on their land.

The advantages of such an arrangement would
be:

1 . That no one would be unable to get land for
use.

2. That there would be no idle people owning
land and making others work for them in return
for permission to use that land.

3. That the land would be in the possession of
those who use it, and not of those who do not use it.

4. That as the land would be available for people
who wished to work on it, they would cease to

LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE 191

enslave themselves as hands in factories and work-
shops, or as servants in towns, and would settle in
the country districts.

5. That there would be no more inspectors and
collectors of taxes in mills, factories, refineries, and
workshops, but there would only be collectors of
the tax on land, which cannot be stolen, and from
which a tax can be most easily collected.

6 (and most important). That the non-workers
would be saved from the sin of exploiting other
people's labour (in doing which they are often not
the guilty parties, for they have from childhood
been educated in idleness and do not know how
to work) , and from the still greater sin of all kinds
of shuffling and lying to justify themselves in
committing that sin; and the workers would be
saved from the temptation and sin of envying,
condemning, and being exasperated with the non-
workers, so that one cause of separation among
men would be destroyed.

II

To a German Propagandist of Henry George's Views.

It is with particular pleasure that I hasten to
answer your letter, and say that I have known of
Henry George since the appearance of his Social
Problems. I read that book and was struck by the
justice of his main thought — by the exceptional
manner (unparalleled in scientific literature) , clear,
popular, and forcible, in which he stated his case —
and especially by (what is also exceptional in
scientific literature) the Christian spirit that per-
meates the whole work. After reading it I went
back to his earlier Progress and Poverty, and still
more deeply appreciated the importance of its
author's activity.

192 LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE

You ask what I think of Henry George's activity,
and of his system of Taxation of Land Values. My
opinion is this:

Humanity constantly advances : on the one hand
elucidating its consciousness and conscience, and
on the other hand rearranging its modes of life
to suit this changing consciousness. Thus at each
period of the life of humanity the double process
goes on: the clearing up of conscience, and the
incorporation into life of what has been made clear
to conscience.

At the end of the eighteenth century and the
beginning of the nineteenth, a clearing up of
consciences took place in Christendom with refer-
ence to the labouring classes, who lived under
various forms of slavery, and this was followed by
a corresponding readjustment of the forms of
social life to match this clearer consciousness.
Slavery was abolished, and free wage-labour took
its place. At the present time an enlightenment of
man's conscience in relation to the way land is used
is going on, and it seems to me a practical applica-
tion of this new consciousness must soon follow.

And in this process (the enlightenment of con-
science as to the utilization of land, and the practi-
cal application of that new consciousness), which
is one of the chief problems of our time, the leader
and organizer of the movement was and is Henry
George. In this lies his immense, his pre-eminent,
importance. By his excellent books he has helped
both to clear men's minds and consciences on this
question, and to place it on a practical footing.

But in relation to the abolition of the shameful
right to own landed estates, something is occurring
similar to what happened within our own recollec-
tion with reference to the abolition of serfdom.
The government and the governing classes —

LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE 193

knowing that their position and privileges are
bound up with the land question — pretend that
they are preoccupied with the welfare of the people,
organizing savings banks for workmen, factory
inspection, income taxes, even eight-hour working
days — and carefully ignore the land question, or
even (aided by compliant science, which will
demonstrate anything they like) declare that the
expropriation of the land is useless, harmful, and
impossible.

Just the same thing occurs as occurred in con-
nexion with slavery. At the end of the eighteenth
and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries, men
had long felt that slavery was a terrible anachron-
ism, revolting to the human soul; but pseudo-
religion and pseudo-science demonstrated that
slavery was not wrong and that it was necessary, or
at least that it was premature to abolish it. The
same thing is now being repeated with reference
to landed property. As before, pseudo-religion and
pseudo-science demonstrate that there is nothing
wrong in the private ownership of landed estates, and
that there is no need to abolish the present system.

One would think it should be plain to every
educated man of our time that an exclusive control
of land by people who do not work on it, but who
prevent hundreds and thousands of poor families
from using it, is a thing as plainly bad and shameful
as it was to own slaves ; yet we see educated, refined
aristocrats — English, Austrian, Prussian, and Rus-
sian— making use of this cruel and shameful right,
and not only not feeling ashamed but feeling proud
of it.

Religion blesses such possessions, and the science
of political economy demonstrates that the present
state of things is the one that should exist for the
greatest benefit of mankind.

459

194 LETTERS ON HENRY GEORGE

The service rendered by Henry George is that
he has not only mastered the sophistries by which
religion and science try to justify private ownership
of land, and simplified the question to the utter-
most so that it is impossible not to admit the
wrongfulness of land-ownership unless one simply
stops one's ears, but he was also the first to show
how the question can be solved in a practical way.
He first gave a clear and direct reply to those
excuses used by the enemies of every reform, to
the effect that the demands of progress are un-
practical and inapplicable dreams.

Henry George's plan destroys that excuse by
putting the question in such a form that a com-
mittee might be assembled to-morrow to discuss
the project and convert it into law. In Russia, for
instance, the discussion of land purchase, or of
nationalizing the land without compensation, could
begin to-morrow, and the project might after
undergoing various vicissitudes be put into opera-
tion, as occurred thirty-three years ago1 with the
project for the emancipation of the serfs.

The need of altering the present system has been
explained, and the possibility of the change has
been shown (there may be alterations and amend-
ments of the Single-Tax system, but its fundamental
idea is practicable) ; and therefore it will be im-
possible for people not to do what their reason
demands. It is only necessary that this thought
should become public opinion; and in order that
it may become public opinion it must be spread
abroad and explained. This is just what you are
doing, and it is a work with which I sympathize with
my whole soul and in which I wish you success.

1 The Emancipation of the Serfs in Russia was decreed in
1861, and was carried out during the following few years. — A. M.

'THOU SHALT NOT KILL'

'Thou shalt not kill.' EXOD. xx. 13.

'The disciple is not above his master: but every one when
he is perfected shall be as his master.' LUKE vi. 40.

'For all they that take the sword shall perish with the
sword.' MATT. xxvi. 52.

'Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should
do to you, do yc even so to them.' MATT. vii. 12.

WHEN Kings are executed after trial, as in the
case of Charles I, Louis XVI, and Maximilian
of Mexico ; or when they are killed in Court con-
spiracies, like Peter III, Paul, and various Sultans,
Shahs, and Khans — little is said about it. But
when they are killed without a trial and without
a Court conspiracy — as in the case of Henry IV
of France, Alexander II, the Empress of Austria,
the late Shah of Persia, and, recently, Humbert —
such murders excite the greatest surprise and
indignation among Kings and Emperors and their
adherents, just as if they themselves never took
part in murders, or profited by them, or instigated
them. But in fact the mildest of the murdered
Kings (Alexander II or Humbert, for instance),
were instigators of and accomplices and partakers
in the murder of tens of thousands of men who
perished on the field of battle, not to speak of
executions in their own countries ; while more cruel
Kings and Emperors have been guilty of hundreds
of thousands, and even millions, of murders.

The teaching of Christ repeals the law, 'An eye
for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth5; but those
who have always clung to that law, and still cling
to it, and who apply it to a terrible degree — not
only claiming an eye for an eye, but without pro-
vocation decreeing the slaughter of thousands, as
they do when they declare war — have no right to

195 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL'

be indignant at the application of that same law
to themselves in so small and insignificant a degree
that hardly one King or Emperor is killed for each
hundred thousand, or perhaps even for each
million, who are killed by the order and with the
consent of Kings and Emperors. Kings and Em-
perors not only should not be indignant at such
murders as those of Alexander II and Humbert,
but they should be surprised that such murders
are so rare, considering the continual and universal
example of murder that they give to mankind.

The crowd are so hvpnotized that they do not
understand the meaning of what is going on before
their eyes. They see what constant care Kings,
Emperors, and Presidents devote to their disci-
plined armies; they see the reviews, parades, and
manoeuvres the rulers hold, about which they
boast to one another; and the people crowd to
see their own brothers, dressed up in the bright
clothes of fools, turned into machines to the sound
of drum and trumpet, and all making one and the
same movement at one and the same moment at
the shout of one man — but they do not understand
what it all means. Yet the meaning of this drilling
is very clear and simple : it is nothing but a prepara-
tion for killing.

It is stupefying men in order to make them fit
instruments for murder. And those who do this,
who chiefly direct it and are proud of it, are the
Kings, Emperors, and Presidents. And it is just
these men — who are specially occupied in organiz-
ing murder and who have made murder their
profession, who wear military uniforms and carry
murderous weapons (swords) at their sides — who
are horrified and indignant when one of themselves
is murdered.

The murder of Kings — the murder of Humbert —

'THOU SHALT NOT KILL* 197

is terrible, but not on account of its cruelty. The
things done by command of Kings and Emperors —
not only past events such as the massacre of St.
Bartholomew, religious butcheries, the terrible
repressions of peasant rebellions, and Paris coups
d'etat, but the present-day government executions,
the doing-to-death of prisoners in solitary confine-
ment, the Disciplinary Battalions, the hangings,
the beheadings, the shootings and slaughter in wars
— are incomparably more cruel than the murders
committed by Anarchists. Nor are these murders
terrible because undeserved. If Alexander II and
Humbert did not deserve death, still less did the
thousands of Russians who perished at Plevna,
or of Italians who perished in Abyssinia.1 Such
murders are terrible not because they are cruel or
unmerited, but because of the unreasonableness of
those who commit them.

If the regicides act under the influence of per-
sonal feelings of indignation evoked by the suffer-
ings of an oppressed people for which they hold
Alexander or Garnot or Humbert responsible, or
if they act from personal feelings of revenge, then
however immoral their conduct may be it is at
least intelligible. But how is it that a body of men
(Anarchists, we are told) such as those by whom
Bresci was sent, and who are now threatening
another Emperor — how is it that they cannot devise
any better means of improving the condition of
humanity than by killing people whose destruction
can be of no more use than the decapitation of that
mythical monster on whose neck a new head ap-
peared as soon as one was cut off? Kings and
Emperors have long ago arranged for themselves
a system like that of a magazine-rifle: as soon as
one bullet has been discharged another takes its
1 In the war of 1896.— A. M.

198 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL'

place. Le roi est mort> vive le roi! So what is the use
of killing them?

Only on a most superficial view can the killing
of these men seem a means of saving the nations
from oppression and from wars destructive of
human life.

One only need remember that similar oppressions
and similar wars went on no matter who was at
the head of the government — Nicholas or Alex-
ander, Frederick or Wilhelm, Napoleon or Louis,
Palmerston or Gladstone, McKinlcy or anyone
else — in order to understand that it is not any
particular person who causes these oppressions and
these wars from which the nations suffer. The
misery of nations is caused not by particular persons
but by the particular order of society under which
the people are so tied up together that they find
themselves all in the power of a few men, or more
often in the power of one single man: a man so
perverted by his unnatural position as arbiter 01
the fate and lives of millions, that he is always in an
unhealthy state, and always suffers more or less
from a mania of self-aggrandizement, which only
his exceptional position conceals from general
notice.

Apart from the fact that such men are surrounded
from earliest childhood to the grave by the most
insensate luxury and an atmosphere of falsehood
and flattery which always accompanies them, their
whole education and all their occupations are
centred on one object: learning about former
murders, the best present-day ways of murdering,
and the best preparations for future murder. From
childhood they learn about killing in all its possible
forms. They always carry about with them
murderous weapons — swords or sabres; they dress
themselves in various uniforms ; they attend parades,

'THOU SHALT NOT KILL1 199

reviews, and manoeuvres; they visit one another,
presenting one another with Orders and nominat-
ing one another to the command of regiments —
and not only does no one tell them plainly what
they are doing, or say that to busy oneself with
preparations for killing is revolting and criminal,
but from all sides they hear nothing but approval
and enthusiasm for all this activity of theirs. Every
time they go out, and at each parade and review,
crowds of people flock to greet them with enthusi-
asm, and it seems to them as if the whole nation
approves of their conduct. The only part of the
Press that reaches them, and that seems to them
the expression of the feelings of the whole people,
or at least of its best representatives, most slavishly
extols their every word and action, however silly
or wicked they may be. Those around them, men
and women, clergy and laity — all people who do
not prize human dignity — vying with one another
in refined flattery, agree with them about anything
and deceive them about everything, making it
impossible for them to see life as it is. Such rulers
might live a hundred years without ever seeing
one single really independent man or ever hearing
the truth spoken. One is sometimes appalled to
hear of the words and deeds of these men ; but one
need only consider their position in order to undei-
stand that anyone in their place would act as they
do. If a reasonable man found himself in their
place there is only one reasonable action he could
perform, and that would be to get away from such
a position. Anyone remaining in it would behave
as they do.

What indeed must go on in the head of some
Wilhelm of Germany — a narrow-minded, ill-
educated, vain man, with the ideals of a German
Junker — when nothing he can say, however stupid

200 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL*

or horrid, will not be met by an enthusiastic
'Hoch!* and be commented on by the Press of the
entire world as though it were something highly
important. When he says that at his word soldiers
should be ready to kill their own fathers, people
shout 'Hurrah!' When he says that the Gospel
must be introduced with an iron fist — 'Hurrah!'
When he says the army is to take no prisoners in
China but to slaughter everybody, he is not put
into a lunatic asylum but people shout 'Hurrah!'
and set sail for China to execute his commands.
Or Nicholas II (a man naturally modest) begins
his reign by announcing to venerable old men who
had expressed a wish to be allowed to discuss their
own affairs that such ideas of self-government
were 'insensate dreams' — and the organs of the
Press he sees and the people he meets praise him
for it. He proposes a childish, silly, and hypo-
critical project of universal peace while at the
same time ordering an increase in the army — and
there are no limits to the laudations of his wisdom
and virtue. Without any need, he foolishly and
mercilessly insults and oppresses a whole nation,
the Finns, and again he hears nothing but praise.
Finally, he arranges the Chinese slaughter —
terrible in its injustice, cruelty, and incompatibility
with his peace projects — and people applaud him
from all sides, both as a victor and as a continuer
of his father's peace policy.

What indeed must be going on in the heads and
hearts of these men?

So it is not the Alexanders and Humberts, nor
the Wilhelms, Nicholases, and Chamberlains1 —
though they decree these oppressions of the nations

1 In Russia and indeed generally throughout Europe
Chamberlain was considered responsible for the Boer War. —
A.M.

'THOU SHALT NOT KILL1 201

and these wars — who are really most guilty of these
sins; it is rather those who place and support
them in the position of arbiters over the lives of
their fellow men. And therefore the thing to do
is not to kill the Alexanders, Nicholases, Wilhelms,
and Humberts, but to cease to support the arrange-
ment of society of which they are a result. And
the present order of society is supported by the
selfishness and stupefaction of the people, who
sell their freedom and honour for insignificant
material advantages.

People who stand on the lowest rung of the
ladder — partly as a result of being stupefied by
a patriotic and pseudo-religious education and
partly for the sake of personal advantages — cede
their freedom and sense of human dignity at the
bidding of these who stand above them and offer
them material advantages. In the same way — in
consequence of stupefaction, but chiefly for the
sake of advantages — those who are a little higher
up the ladder cede their freedom and manly
dignity, and the same thing repeats itself with those
standing yet higher, and so on to the topmost rung
— to those who, or to him who, standing at the
apex of the social cone have nothing more to obtain,
for whom the only motives of action are love of
power and vanity, and who are generally so per-
verted and stupefied by the power of life and death
which they hold over their fellow men, and by the
consequent servility and flattery of those who sur-
round them, that without ceasing to do evil they
feel quite assured that they are benefactors to the
human race.

It is the people who sacrifice their dignity as men
for material profit who produce these men who
cannot act otherwise than as they do act, and with
whom it is useless to be angry for their stupid and

202 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL*

wicked actions. To kill such men is like whipping

children whom one has first spoilt.

That nations should not be oppressed, and that
there should be none of these useless wars, and that
men should not be indignant with those who seem
to cause these evils and should not kill them — it
seems that only a very small thing is necessary. It
is necessary that men should understand things as
they are, should call them by their right names, and
should know that an army is an instrument for
killing, and that the enrolment and management of
an army — the very things which Kings, Emperors,
and Presidents occupy themselves with so seli-
ronfidently — is a preparation for murder.

If only each King, Emperor, and President
understood that his work of directing armies is not
an honourable and important duty, as his flatterers
persuade him it is, but a bad and shameful act
of preparation for murder — and if each private
individual understood that the payment of taxes
wherewith to hire and equip soldiers, and above
all army service itself, are not matters of indiffer-
ence, but arc bad and shameful actions by which
he not only permits but participates in murder —
then this power of Emperors, Kings, and Presidents,
which now arouses our indignation and which
causes them to be murdered, would disappear of
itself.

So the Alexanders, Carnots, Humberts, and
others should not be murdered, but it should be
explained to them that they are themselves mur-
derers, and above all they should not be allowed
to kill people: men should refuse to murder at
their command.

If people do not yet act in this way it is only
because governments, to maintain themselves,
diligently exercise an hypnotic influence upon the

'THOU SHALT NOT KILL' 203

people. And therefore we may help to prevent
people killing either Kings or one another, not
by killing — murder only increases the hypnotism —
but by arousing people from their hypnotic con-
dition.

And it is this I have tried to do by these remarks.

[August 8, o.s., /poo.]

Prohibited in Russia, an attempt was made to print
this article in the Russian language in Germany; but
the edition was seized in July, 1903, and after a trial in
the Provincial Court of Leipzig (August, 1903) it was
pronounced to be insulting to the German Kaiser, and
all copies were ordered to be destroyed. — A. M.

BETHINK YOURSELVES!

(Concerning the Russo-Japanese War)
'This is your hour and the power of darkness.' LUKE xxii. 53.

. . . Your iniquities have separated between you and
your God, and your sins have hid his face fiom you,
and he will not hear. For your hands are defiled with
blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have
spoken lies, your tongue muttereth wickedness. None
sueth in righteousness, and none pleadeth in truth : they
trust in vanity, and speak lies; they conceive mischief
and bring forth iniquity . . . their works are works of
iniquity, and the act of violence is in their hands. Their
feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent
blood; their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity ; desolation
and destruction are in their paths. The way of peace
they know not ; and there is no judgement in their goings ;
they have made themselves crooked paths; whosoever
goeth therein doth not know peace. Therefore is judge-
ment far from us, neither doth righteousness overtake
us : we look for light, but behold darkness, for brightness,
but we walk in obscurity. We grope for the wall like
the blind, yea, we grope as they that have no eyes: we
Stumble at noonday as in the twilight; among them that
are lusty we are as dead men. ISAIAH lix. 2-11.

War is held in greater esteem than ever. A skilled
proficient in this business, that murderer of genius, von
Moltke, once replied to some Peace delegates in the
following terrible words :

'War is sacred, it is instituted by God, it is one of the
divine laws of the world, it upholds in men all the great
and noble sentiments — honour, self-sacrifice, virtue, and
courage. It is War alone that saves men from falling
into the grossest materialism.'

To assemble four hundred thousand men in herds, to
march night and day without rest, with no time to think,

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 205

read, or study, without being of the least use to anybody,
wallowing in filth, sleeping in the mud, living like animals
in continual stupefaction, sacking towns, burning
villages, ruining the whole population, and then meeting
similar masses of human flesh and falling upon them,
shedding rivers of blood, strewing the fields with mangled
bodies mixed with mud and blood; losing arms and legs
and having brains blown out for no benefit to anyone and
dying somewhere on a field while your old parenls
and your wife and childien are perishing of hunger —
that is called saving men from falling into the grossest
materialism! GUY DE MAUPASSANT.

We will content ourselves with reminding you that the
different states of Europe have accumulated a debt of
a hundred and thirty milliards (about a hundred and
ten within the last century), and that this colossal debt
has arisen almost exclusively from the expenses of war ;
that in time of peace they maintain standing armies of
four million men, which they can increase to ten million
in times of war;1 that two-thirds of their budgets are
absorbed by interest on these debts and by the main-
tenance of land and sea forces. G. DE MOLINARI.

AGAIN there is war! Again there is needless and
J\ quite unnecessary suffering, together with fraud
and a general stupefaction and brutalization of men.
Men who are separated from each other by
thousands of miles — Buddhists whose law forbids
the killing not only of men but even of animals, and
Christians professing a law of brotherhood and
love — hundreds of thousands of such men seek one
another out on land and sea like wild beasts, to kill,
torture, and mutilate one another in the cruellest
possible way. Can this really be happening, or is
it merely a dream? Something impossible and
unbelievable is taking place, and one longs to
believe that it is a dream and to awaken from it.

1 Now, in 1936, these figures have enormously increased
and continue to expand. — A. M.

206 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

But it is no dream. It is a dreadful reality.

It is understandable that a poor, uneducated
Japanese who has been torn from his field and
taught that Buddhism consists not in having com-
passion for all that lives, but in offering sacrifices
to idols; and a similar poor illiterate fellow from
the neighbourhood of Tula or Nizhni-Novgorod
who has been taught that Christianity consists in
bowing before icons of Christ, the Mother of God,
and the Saints — it is understandable that these
unfortunate men, taught by centuries of violence
and deceit to regard the greatest crime in the world
(the murder of their fellow men) as a noble deed,
can commit these dreadful crimes without regard-
ing themselves as guilty. But how can so-called
enlightened men support war, preach it, partici-
pate in it, and, worst of all, without being exposed
to its dangers themselves, incite their unfortunate,
defrauded brothers to take part in it? For these so-
called enlightened men cannot help knowing, I do
not say the Christian law (if they recognize them-
selves to be Christians), but all that has been and
is being written and said about the cruelty, futility,
and senselessness of war. They are regarded as
enlightened just because they know all this. Most
of them have themselves written and spoken about
it. Not to mention the Hague Conference which
evoked universal praise, and all the books, pam-
phlets, newspaper articles, and speeches concerning
the possibility of solving international misunder-
standings by international courts — no enlightened
man can help knowing that universal competition
in the armaments of different states must inevitably
result in endless wars and general bankruptcy, or
in both of these together. They cannot help know-
ing that besides the insensate and useless expendi-
ture of milliards of rubles (that is of human labour)

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 207

on preparations for war, millions of the most ener-
getic and vigorous men perish in wars at the time
of their life best for productive labour. (During
the past century fourteen million men have so
perished.) Enlightened men cannot but know that
the grounds of a war are never worth a single
human life or a hundredth part of what is spent
on it. (In fighting for the emancipation of the
negroes much more was spent than would have
bought all the slaves in the Southern States.)

Above all, everyone knows and cannot but know
that wars evoke the lowest animal passions and
deprave and brutalize men. Everyone knows how
unconvincing are the arguments in favour of war
(such as those brought forward by de Maistre,1
von Moltke, and others) — all based on the sophistry
that in every human calamity it is possible to find
a useful side, or on the quite arbitrary assertion that
as wars have always existed they must always
exist — as if the evil actions of men can be justified
by the advantages they bring or by the fact that
they have long been committed. Every so-called
enlightened man knows all this. But suddenly a
war begins and it is all instantly forgotten, and the
very men who only yesterday were proving the
cruelty, futility, and senselessness of wars, now
think, speak, and write only of how to kill as many
men as possible, of how to ruin and destroy as
much of the produce of human labour as possible,
and how to inflame the passion of hatred to the
utmost in those peaceful, harmless, industrious men
who by their labour feed, clothe, and maintain the
pseudo-enlightened men who force them to com-
mit these dreadful deeds, contrary to their con-
sciencej welfare, and faith.

1 Joseph de Maistre, an ardent Roman Catholic who acted as
Sardinian ambassador at Petersburg from 1 803 to 1 8 1 7. — A. M.

ao8 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

II

And Micromegas said:

*O intelligent atoms in whom the Eternal Being has
been pleased to manifest his dexterity and his might, the
joys you taste on your globe are doubtless very pure,
for as you are so immaterial and seem to be all spirit,
your lives must be passed in Love and in Thought : that
indeed is the true life of spirits. Nowhere yet have I found
real happiness, but that you have it here I cannot doubt.'

At these words all the philosophers shook their heads
and one of them, more frank than the rest, candidly
admitted that apart from a small number of people who
were held in little esteem, the rest of the inhabitants of
the world were a crowd of madmen, miscreants, and
unfortunates. 'If evil be a property of matter,' he said,
'we have more matter than is necessary for the doing of
much evil, and too much spirit if evil be a property
of the spirit. Do you realize, for instance, that at this
moment there are a hundred thousand madmen of our
species wearing hats, killing or being killed by a hundred
thousand other animals wearing turbans, and that over
almost the whole face of the earth this has been the
custom from time immemorial?'

The Sirian shuddered and asked what could be the
ground for these horrible quarrels between such puny
beasts.

'The matter at issue,' replied the philosopher, 'is some
mud-heap as large as your heel. It is not that any single
man of all these millions who slaughter each other
claims one straw on the mud-heap. The point is — shall
the mud-heap belong to a certain man called the
"Sultan", or to another called, I know not why,
"Caesar"? Neither of them has ever seen or will ever
see the little bit of land in dispute, and barely one of
these animals which slaughter each other has ever seen
the animal for which he is slaughtered.'

* Wretches!' cried the Sirian indignantly. 'Such a riot
of mad fury is inconceivable! I am tempted to take three
steps and with three blows of my foot crush out of
existence this ant-hill of absurd cut-throats.'

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 209

'Do not trouble,' answered the philosopher, 'they
wreak their own ruin. Know that after ten years not
a hundredth part of these miscreants is ever left. Know
that even when they have not drawn the sword, hunger,
exhaustion, or debauchery carries them nearly all off.
Besides it is not they who should be punished, but the
stay-at-home baibarians who, after a good meal, order
from their remote closets the massacre of a million men,
and then have solemn prayers of gratitude for the event
offered up to God.' VOLTAIRE, Micromegas, Ch. vii.

The folly of modern wars is excused on grounds of
dynastic interests, nationality, European equilibrium,
and honour. This last is perhaps the most extravagant
excuse of all, for there is not a nation in the world that
has not polluted itself by all sorts of crimes and shameful
actions, nor is there one that has not experienced every
possible humiliation. If indeed there still exists a sense
of honour among nations, it is strange to support it by
making war — that is, by committing all the crimes by
which a private person dishonours himself: arson, rape,
outrage, murder. . . . ANATOLE FRANCE.

The savage instinct of murder-in-war has very deep
roots in the human brain, because it has been carefully
encouraged and cultivated for thousands of years. One
likes to hope that a humanity superior to ours will
succeed in correcting this original vice, but what will
it then think of this civilization calling itself refined and
of which we are so proud? Even as we now think of
ancient Mexico and of its cannibalism, at one and the
same time pious, warlike, and bestial.

CH. LETOURNEAU.

Sometimes out of fear one ruler attacks another in
order that the latter should not fall upon him. Some-
times war is begun because the foe is too strong, and
sometimes because he is too weak; sometimes our neigh-
bours desire our possessions, or they possess what we
want. Then begins war, which lasts until they seize
what they may require or surrender the possession which
is demanded by us. JONATHAN SWIFT.

210 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

Something incomprehensible and impossible in
its cruelty, falsehood, and stupidity is taking place.
The Russian Tsar, the very man who summoned
all the nations to peace,1 publicly announces that
despite his efforts to maintain the peace so dear to
his heart (efforts expressed by the seizure of other
peoples' lands, and the strengthening of the army
for the defence of these stolen lands) — he is com-
pelled in consequence of attacks by the Japanese to
order the same to be done to them as they have
begun doing to the Russians, that is, that they
should be killed ; and announcing this call to mur-
der he mentions God, evoking a Divine blessing
on the most dreadful crime in the world. The
Japanese Emperor has proclaimed the same thing
in regard to the Russians.

Learned jurists, Messieurs Muravev and Martens,
are assiduous in demonstrating that there is no
contradiction at all between the former general
call to universal peace and the present incitement
to war, because other peoples' lands have been
seized. Diplomatists publish and send out circulars
in the refined French language, proving circum-
stantially and diligently (though they know that no
one believes them) that after all its efforts to estab-
lish peaceful relations (in reality after all its efforts
to deceive other countries) the Russian govern-
ment has been compelled to have recourse to the
only means for a rational solution of the question,
that is, by the murder of men. And the same thing
is written by the Japanese diplomatists. Learned
men for their part, comparing the present with the
past and deducing profound conclusions from these
comparisons, argue interminably about the laws

1 This refers to the Hague Conference of 1899, organized
at the instance of Nicholas II, and aiming at an agreement
not to increase the armed forces that then existed. — A. M.

BETHINK YOURSELVES ! 211

of the movements of nations, about the relation of
the yellow to the white race, and about Buddhism
and Christianity, and on the basis of these deduc-
tions and reflections justify the slaughter of the
yellow race by Christians. And in the same way
the Japanese learned men and philosophers justify
the slaughter of the white race. Journalists with
unconcealed joy, trying to outdo one another and
not stopping at any falsehood however impudent
and transparent, prove in various ways that the
Russians alone are right and strong and good in
every respect, and that all the Japanese are wrong
and weak and bad in every respect, and that all
those who are inimical or who may become
inimical towards the Russians (the English and
the Americans) are bad too. And the Japanese
and their supporters prove just the same regarding
the Russians.

Quite apart from the military people whose
profession it is to prepare for murder, crowds of
supposedly enlightened people — professors, social
reformers, students, gentry, and merchants — of
their own accord express most bitter and con-
temptuous feelings towards the Japanese, the
English, and the Americans, towards whom only
yesterday they were well disposed or indifferent;
and of their own accord express most abject and
servile feelings towards the Tsar (to whom they
are to say the least completely indifferent) assuring
him of their unbounded love and readiness to
sacrifice their lives for him.

And that unfortunate and entangled young man,
acknowledged as ruler of a hundred and thirty
million people, continually deceived and obliged
to contradict himself, believes all this, and thanks
and blesses for slaughter the troops he calls his,
in defence of lands he has even less right to

212 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

call his. They all present hideous icons to one
another (in which no enlightened people now
believe and which even uneducated peasants
are beginning to abandon) and they all bow to
the ground before these icons, kiss them, and pro-
nounce pompous and false speeches which nobody
believes.

Wealthy people contribute insignificant portions
of their immorally acquired riches to this cause of
murder, or to the organization of assistance in the
work of murder, while the poor, from whom the
government annually collects two milliards, deem
it necessary to do likewise, offering their mites
also. The government incites and encourages
crowds of idlers who walk about the streets with
the Tsar's portrait, singing and shouting hurrah
and under pretext of patriotism committing all
kinds of excesses. All over Russia from the capital
to the remotest village the priests in the churches,
calling themselves Christians, appeal to the God
who enjoined love of one's enemies, the God of
love, for help in the devil's work — the slaughter
of men.

And stupefied by prayers, sermons, exhortations,
processions, pictures, and newspapers, the cannon-
fodder — hundreds of thousands of men dressed
alike and carrying various lethal weapons — leave
their parents, wives, and children, and with agony
at heart but with a show of bravado, go where at
the risk of their own lives they will commit the
most dreadful action, killing men whom they do
not know and who have done them no harm. And
in their wake go doctors and nurses who for some
reason suppose that they cannot serve the simple,
peaceful, suffering people at home, but can serve
only those who are engaged in slaughtering one
another. Those who remain behind rejoice at the

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 213

news of the murder* of men, and when they learn
that a great many Japanese have been killed they
thank someone whom they call God.

And not only is all this considered a manifesta-
tion of elevated feeling, but those who refrain from
such manifestations and attempt to bring people
to reason are considered traitors and enemies to
their nation, and are in danger of being abused
and beaten by a brutalized crowd which possesses
no other weapon but brute force in defence of its
insanity and cruelty.

Ill

War organizes a body of men who lose the feelings
of the citizen in the soldier; whose habits detach them
from the community; whose ruling passion is devotion
to a chief; who are inured in camp to despotic sway; who
are accustomed to accomplish their ends by force and
to sport with the rights and happiness of their fellow
beings; who delight in tumult, adventure, and peril,
and turn with disgust and scorn from the quiet labours
of peace. ... It (war) tends to multiply and perpetuate
itself endlessly. The successful nation, flushed by victory,
pants for new lauiels, whilst the humbled nation,
irritated by defeat, is impatient to redeem its honour
and repair its losses. . . .

The slaughter of thousands of fellow beings instead of
awakening pity flushes them with delirious joy, illumin-
ates the city, and dissolves the whole country in revelry
and riot. Thus the heart of man is hardened and his
worst passions are nourished. He renounces the bonds
and sympathies of humanity. CHANNING.

The age for military service has arrived, and every
young man has to submit to the arbitrary orders of some
rascal or ignoramus; he must believe that nobility and
greatness consist in renouncing his own will and be-
coming the tool of another's will, in slashing and in
getting himself slashed, in suffering from hunger, thirst,

214 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

rain, and cold; in being mutilated without knowing
why and without any other reward than a glass of
brandy on the day of battle and the promise of some-
thing impalpable and fictitious — immortality after
death, and glory given or refused by the pen of some
journalist in his warm room.

A gun is fired. He falls wounded, his comrades finish
him off by trampling over him. He is buried half alive
and then he may enjoy immortality. He for whom he
had given his happiness, his sufferings, and his very life,
never knew him. And years later someone comes to
collect his whitened bones, out of which they make paint
and English blacking for cleaning his General's boots.

ALPHONSE KARR.

They take a man in the bloom of his youth, they put
a gun into his hands, a knapsack on his back, and a
cockaded hat on his head, and then they say to him:
'My brother-ruler of so-and-so has treated me badly.
You must attack his subjects. I have informed them that
on such and such a date you will present yourselves at
the frontier to slaughter them. . . .

'Perhaps at first you will think that our enemies are
men; but they are not men, they are Prussians or
Frenchmen. You will distinguish them from the human
race by the colour of their uniform. Try to do your duty
well, for I am looking on. If you gain the victory, they
will bring you to the windows of my palace when you
return. I will come down in full uniform and say:
"Soldiers, I am satisfied!" , . . Should you remain on
the battlefield (which may easily happen) I will com-
municate the news of your death to your family that
they may mourn for you and inherit your share of
things. If you lose an arm or a leg I will pay you what
they arc worth; but if you remain alive and are no longer
fit to carry your knapsack I will dismiss you, and you
can go and die where you like. That will no longer
concern me.' CLAUDE TILLIER.

But I learnt discipline, namely, that the corporal is
always right when he addresses a private, the sergeant

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 215

when he addresses a corporal, the sub-lieutenant when
he addresses a sergeant-major, and so on up to the Field-
Marshal — even should they say that twice two is five !

It is at first difficult to grasp this, but there is some-
thing which will help you to understand it. It is a notice
stuck up in the barracks, and which is read to you from
time to time in order to clear your ideas. This notice
sets out all that a soldier may wish to do: to return to
his village, to refuse to serve, to disobev his commander,
and so on — and for all this the penalty is mentioned:
capital punishment, or five years' penal servitude.

LRCKMANN-CHATRIAN.

I have bought a negro, he is mine. He works like a
horse. I feed him badly, I clothe him similarlv, he is
beaten when he disobeys. Is theie anything surprising
in that? Do we treat our soldiers any better? Aie they
not deprived of liberty like this negro? The only differ-
ence is that the soldier costs much less. A good negro
is now worth at least five hundred ecus, a good soldier
is hardly worth fifty. Neither the one noi the other may
quit the place where he is confined. Both are beaten
for the slightest fault. Their salary is about the same.
But the negro has this advantage over the soldier: he
does not risk his life but passes it with his wife and
children.

Questions sur VEncyclopedie^ par des amateurs, Art.

Esclavage.

It is as if neither Voltaire, nor Montaigne, nor
Pascal, nor Swift, nor Kant, nor Spinoza, had ever
existed, nor the hundreds of other writers who have
very forcibly exposed the madness and futility of
war, and described its cruelty, immorality, and
savagery. Above all it is as if Jesus and his teaching
of human brotherhood and love of God and man
had never existed.

Recalling all this and looking around on what is
happening now, one experiences horror less at the
abominations of war than at that most horrible

2i6 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

of all horrors, the consciousness of the impotence

of human reason.

Reason, which alone distinguishes man from the
brutes and constitutes his true dignity, is now
regarded as an unnecessary, useless, and even
pernicious attribute, which simply impedes action,
like a bridle dangling from a horse's head, merely
entangling his legs and irritating him.

It is understandable that a pagan, a Greek, a
Roman, or even a medieval Christian ignorant of
the Gospel and blindly believing all the prescrip-
tions of the Church, might fight and while fighting
pride himself on his military calling. But how can
a believing Christian, or even a sceptic involun-
tarily permeated by the Christian ideals of human
brotherhood and love which have inspired the
works of the philosophers, moralists, and artists of
our time — how can such a man take a gun or
stand by a cannon and aim at a crowd of his fellow
men, desiring to kill as many of them as possible?

The Assyrians, Romans, or Greeks might be
convinced that when fighting they not only acted
according to their conscience but even performed
a good action. But we are Christians whether we
wish it or not, and the general spirit of Christianity
(however it may have been distorted) has lifted
us to a higher plane of reason, whence we cannot
but feel with our whole being not only the sense-
lessness and cruelty of war but its complete contrast
to all that we regard as good and right. And so
we cannot quietly do as they did with assurance
and firmness. We cannot do it without a con-
sciousness of our criminality, without the desperate
feeling of a murderer who having begun to kill
his victim and aware in the depths of his soul of
his guilt, tries to stupefy or infuriate himself in
order to be able to complete his dreadful deed. All

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 217

the unnatural, feverish, hot-headed, insane excite-
ment that has now seized the idle upper ranks of
Russian society, is merely a symptom of their con-
sciousness of the criminality of what is being done.
All these swaggering mendacious speeches about
devotion to, and worship of, the monarch, all this
readiness to sacrifice their lives (they should say
other people's lives) ; all these promises to defend
with their breasts land that does not belong to
them; all these senseless blessings of one another
with various banners and monstrous icons; all
these Te Deums; all this preparation of blankets
and bandages; all these detachments of nurses; all
these contributions to the fleet and to the Red Cross
presented to the government — \\hose direct duty
it is, having declared war (and being able to collect
as much money as it requires from the people) , to
organize the necessary fleet and necessary means
for attending the wounded — all these pompous,
senseless, and blasphemous Slavonic prayers, the
utterance of which in various towns the papers
report as important news; all these processions, calls
for the national anthem, and shouts of hurrah ; all
this desperate newspaper mendacity which has no
fear of exposure, because it is so general; all this
stupefaction and brutalization in which Russian
society is now plunged, and which is transmitted
by degrees to the masses — all this is merely a
symptom of the consciousness of guilt in the dread-
ful thing which is being done.

Spontaneous feeling tells men that what they are
doing is wrong, but as a murderer who has begun
to assassinate his victim cannot stop, so the fact
of the deadly work having been begun seems to
Russian people an unanswerable reason in its
favour. War has begun, and so it must go on. So
it seems to simple, benighted, unlearned men under

218 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

the influence of the petty passions and stupefaction
to which they have been subjected. And in the
same way the most learned men of our time demon-
strate that man has no free will, and that therefore,
even if he understands that the thing he has begun
is evil, he cannot stop doing it.

And so dazed and brutalized men continue the
dreadful work.

IV

It is amazing to what an extent the most insignificant
disagreement can become a sacred war, thanks to diplo-
macy and the newspapers. When England and France
declared war on Rusbia in 1853 it came about from
such insignificant reasons that a long search among the
diplomatic archives is necessary to discover it. ... The
death of five hundred thousand good men, and the
expenditure of from five to six milliards of money, were
the consequences of that strange misunderstanding.

Motives existed. But they were such as were not
acknowledged. Napoleon the Third wished by an
alliance with England and a successful war to consolidate
his power which was of criminal origin. The Russians
hoped to obtain possession of Constantinople. The
English wished to assure the triumph of their com-
merce, and to hinder Russian influence in the East. In
one shape or another it is always the spirit of conquest
or of violence. CHARLES RIGHET.

Can anything be stupider than that a man has the
right to kill me because he lives on the other side of a
river and his ruler has a quarrel with mine, though I
have not quarrelled with him? PASCAL.

The inhabitants of the planet Earth are still in such
a ridiculous state of unintelligence and stupidity that
we read every day in the newspapers of the civilized
countries a discussion of the diplomatic relations of the
chiefs of states aiming at an alliance against a supposed
enemy and preparations for war, and that the nations

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 219

allow their leaders to dispose of them like cattle led to
the slaughter, as though never suspecting that the life
of each man is his personal property.

The inhabitants of this singular planet have been
reared in the conviction that there are nations, frontiers,
and standards, and they have such a feeble sense of
humanity that that feeling is completely effaced by the
sense of the Fatherland. ... It is true that if those who
think could come to an agreement this situation would
change, for individually no one desires war. . . . But
there exist these political combinations which furnish
livelihood for a legion of parasites. FLAMMARION.

When we study, not superficially but fundamentally,
the various activities of mankind, we cannot avoid this
sad reflection: How many lives are expended for the
perpetuation of the power of evil on earth, and how this
evil is promoted most of all by permanent armies.

Our astonishment and feeling of sadness increase when
we consider that this is all unnecessary, and that this
evil complacently accepted by the immense majority of
men cornes about merely through their stupidity in
allowing a comparatively small number of agile and
perverted people to exploit them. PATRICE LARROQUE.

Ask a soldier — a private, a corporal, or a non-
commissioned officer — who has abandoned his old
parents, his wife and children, why he is preparing
to kill men he does not know, and he will at first
be surprised at your question. He is a soldier,
has taken the oath, and must fulfil the orders of
his commanders. If you tell him that war, that is
the slaughter of men, does not conform to the
command 'Thou shalt not kill', he will say: 'But
how if our people are attacked?' . . . 'For the Tsar
and the Orthodox Faith!5 (In answer to my
question one of them said : 'But how if he attacks
what is sacred?' 'What do you mean?' I asked.
'Why,' said he, 'the flag.') If you try to explain to

220 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

such a soldier that God's command is more im-
portant than the flag, or than anything in the
world, he will become silent or will get angry and
report you to the authorities.

Ask an officer or a general why he goes to the
war. He will tell you that he is a military man, and
that military men are indispensable for the defence
of the Fatherland. It does not trouble him that
murder is not in agreement with the spirit of the
Christian law, because he either does not believe
in that law or, if he does, he does not believe in
that law itself but in some explanation that has
been given of it. Above all (like the soldier) he
always puts a general question about the State or
the Fatherland, instead of the personal question
what he himself should do. 'At the present time
when the Fatherland is in danger one must act
and not argue,' he will say.

Ask the diplomatists who by their deceptions pre-
pare wars why they do it? They will tell you that
the object of their activity is the establishment of
peace among nations, and that this object is at-
tained not by ideal, unrealizable theories, but by
diplomatic activity and being prepared for war.
And just as military men put a general question
instead of a personal one affecting their own life,
so the diplomatists will speak of the interests of
Russia, of the perfidy of other Powers, or of the
balance of power in Europe, instead of about their
own life and activity.

Ask journalists why they incite men to war by
their writings. They will say that in general wars
are necessary and useful, especially the present one,
and they will confirm this by misty patriotic
phrases, and (like the military men and the diplo-
matists) will talk about the general interests of the
nation, the State, civilization, and the White Race,

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 221

instead of saying why they themselves — particular
individuals and living men — act in a certain way.

And all those who prepare war will explain their
participation in that work in just the same way.
They will perhaps agree that it would be desirable
to abolish war, but at present, they say, that is
impossible; at present — as Russians, and as men
occupying certain positions: marshals of the gentry,
members of local government, doctors, workers in
the Red Cross — they are called on to act and not
to argue. 'There is no time to argue and think
about ourselves,' they will say, 'while there is a
great common work to be done.'

The Tsar, apparently responsible for the whole
affair, will say the same. Like the soldier he will
be astonished at being asked whether war is now
necessary. He does not even admit the idea that
it might yet be stopped. He will say that he cannot
fail to fulfil what is demanded of him by the whole
nation, that — though he recognizes war to be a
great evil and has used and is ready to use every
possible means to abolish it — in the present case
he could not help declaring war and cannot but
go on with it. It is necessary for the welfare and
glory of Russia.

Every one of these men, to the question why he,
Ivan, Peter, or Nicholas, recognizing the Christian
law as binding on him — the law forbidding the
killing of one's neighbour and demanding that one
should love and serve him — permits himself to take
part in war (that is in violence, loot, and murder)
will always answer that he does so for his Fatherland
or his faith or his oath or his honour or for civiliza-
tion or for the future welfare of all mankind —
in general for something abstract and indefinite.
Moreover, all these men are always so urgently
occupied, either by preparation for war or its

222 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

organization or by discussions about it, that their
leisure is taken up in resting from their labours,
and they have no time for discussions about their
life, and regard such discussions as idle.

The mind revolts at the inevitable catastrophe awaiting
us, but it is necessary to prepare for it. For twenty years
all the powers of knowledge have been exhausted in
inventing engines of destruction, and soon a few cannon
shots will suffice to destroy a whole army.

It is no longer as formerly a few thousand mercenary
wretches who are under arms, but whole nations are
preparing to kill one another. . . . And in order to fit
them for murder their hatred is excited by assurances
that they themselves are hated. And kind-hearted men
will believe this, and peaceful citizens having received
an absurd order to slay one another for God knows what
ridiculous boundary incident or commercial colonial
interests, will soon fling themselves at one another with
the ferocity of wild beasts.

And they will go to the slaughter like sheep, but with
a knowledge of where they are going, and that they ate
leaving their wives and that their children will be
hungry. But they will be so deceived and inebriated
by false, highflown words, that they will call on God
to bless their bloody deeds. And they will go with
enthusiastic songs, cries of joy and festive music, tramp-
ling down the harvest they have sown and burning towns
they have built — go without indignation, humbly and
submissively, despite the fact that the strength is theirs
and that if they could only agree, they could establish
common-sense and fraternity in place of the savage
frauds of diplomacy. EDOUARD ROD.

An eye-witness relates what he saw when he stepped
on to the deck of the Varyag during the present Russo-
Japanese war. The sight was dreadful. Headless trunks,
arms that had been torn off, and fragments of flesh, were
lying about in profusion, and everywhere there was

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 223

blood, and a smell of blood which nauseated even those
most accustomed to it. The conning- tower had suffered
most — a shell had exploded on it and had killed a young
officer who was directing the sighting of the guns. All
that was left of that unfortunate young man was a
clenched hand holding an instrument; two men who
were with the captain were blown to pieces, and two
others were severely wounded (both had to have their
legs amputated, and then had to undergo a second
amputation higher up) . The captain escaped \\ ith a blow
on the head from the splinter of a shell.

And this is not all. The wounded cannot be taken on
board neutral ships because of the infection from gan-
grene and fever.

Gangrene and suppurating wounds, together with
hunger, fire, ruin, typhus, small-pox, and other infectious
diseases, are also incidental to military glory. Such is war.

And yet Joseph de Maistre sang the praises of the
beneficence of war: 'When the human soul loses its
resilience owing to effeminacy, when it becomes un-
believing and contracts those rotten vices which ac-
company the superfluities of civilization, it can only be
re-established in blood.'

M. de Vogue, the academician, says much the same
thing, and so does M. Brunetiere.

But the unfortunates of whom cannon-fodder is made
have a right to disagree with this.

Unfortunately, however, they have not the courncre of
their convictions. Therein lies the whole evil. Aicus-
tomed from of old to allow themselves to be killed on
account of questions they do not understand, they con-
tinue to let this be done, imagining all to be well.

That is why corpses are now lying beneath the water
and are being devoured by crabs.

When everything around them was being demolished
by grapeshot, these unfortunates can hardly have con-
soled themselves by the thought that all this was being
done for their good and to re-establish the soul of their
contemporaries which had lost its resilience from the
superfluities of civilization. They had probably not
read Joseph de Maistre.

224 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

I advise the wounded to read him between two dress-
ings, and they will learn that war is as necessary as the
executioner, because like him it is a manifestation of the
justice of God.

This great thought may serve them as consolation
while the surgeons are sawing their bones !

HARDOUIN.

In the Russian News I read the opinion that Russia's
advantage lies in her inexhaustible store of human
material.

For children whose father is killed, for a wife whose
husband is killed, for a mother whose son is killed — this
material is quickly exhausted.

(From a private letter from a Russian mother, March 1904.)

You ask whether war is still necessary between civilized
nations?

I reply that not only is it no longer necessary, but that
it never has been necessary. It has always violated the
historical development of humanity, infringed human
rights, and hindered progress.

If some of the consequences of war have been ad-
vantageous to civilization in general, its harmful conse-
quences have been much greater. We are misled because
only a part of these harmful consequences is immediately
apparent. The greater part and the most important
we do not notice. So we must not accept the word
'still'. Its acceptance gives the advocates of war the
opportunity to assert that the difference between them
and us is only one of temporary expediency or personal
appraisal, and our disagreement is then reduced to the
fact that we consider war to be useless, while they con-
sider it still useful. They readily concede that it may
become unnecessary and even harmful — but only to-
morrow and not to-day. To-day they consider it neces-
sary to perform on people these terrible blood-lettings
which are called wars, and which are made only to
satisfy the personal ambitions of a very small minority —
to ensure power, honours, and riches, to a small number
of men to the detriment of the masses whose natural

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 225

credulity and superstitions these men exploit, together
with the prejudices created and upheld by them.

CAPITAINE G ASTON MOCK.

Men of our Christian world in our time are like
a man who has missed the right turning and be-
comes more and more convinced, the farther he
goes, that he is going the wrong way. Yet the
greater his doubts the quicker and more desperately
does he hurry on, consoling himself with the
thought that he must arrive somewhere. But the
time comes when it is quite clear that the way
along which he is going leads only to a precipice
which he begins to discern before him.

That is where Christian humanity stands in our
time. It is quite evident that if we continue to live
as we are doing — guided in our private lives and
in the lives of our separate states solely by desire
for personal welfare for ourselves or our states,
and think, as we now do, to ensure this welfare
by violence — then the means for violence of man
against man and state against state will inevitably
increase, and we shall first ruin ourselves more and
more by expending a major portion of our pro-
ductivity on armaments; and then become more
and more degenerate and depraved by killing the
physically best men in wars.

If we do not change our way of life this is as
certain as it is mathematically certain that two
non-parallel straight lines must meet. And not
only is it certain theoretically, but in our time our
feeling as well as our intelligence becomes con-
vinced of it. The precipice we are approaching is
already visible, and even the most simple, naive,
and uneducated people cannot fail to see that by
arming ourselves increasingly against one another
and slaughtering one another in war, we must

459 !

22b BETHINK YOURSELVES!

inevitably come to mutual destruction, like spiders

in ajar.

A sincere, serious, and rational man can now
no longer console himself with the thought that
matters can be mended, as was formerly supposed,
by a universal empire such as that of Rome, or
Charlemagne, or Napoleon, or by the medieval,
spiritual power of the Pope, or by alliances, the
political balance of a European concert and peace-
ful international tribunals, or as some have thought
by an increase of military forces and the invention
of new and more powerful weapons of destruction.

The organization of a universal empire or re-
public of European states is impossible, for the
different peoples will never wish to unite into one
state. Shall we then organize international tri-
bunals for the solution of international disputes?
But who would impose obedience to the tribunal's
decision on a contending party that had an army
of millions of men? Disarmament? No one desires
to begin it, or is able to do so. Shall we perhaps
invent even more dreadful means of destruction —
balloons with bombs filled with suffocating gases
which men will shower on each other from above?
Whatever may be invented, every state would
furnish itself with similar weapons of destruction.
And as the human cannon-fodder faced the bullets
that succeeded sword and spear, and the shells,
bombs, long-range guns, shrapnel, and torpedoes
that succeeded bullets — so it will submit to bombs
charged with suffocating gases scattered down
upon it from the air.

The speeches of M. Muravev and Professor
Martens as to the Japanese war not conflicting with
the Hague Peace Conference, show more obviously
than anything else to what an extent speech — the
organ for the transmission of thought — is distorted

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 227

amongst men of our time, and the capacity for
clear, rational thinking completely lost. Thought
and speech are used not to guide human activity
but to justify any activity however criminal it
may be. The late Boer war and the present
Japanese war (which may at any moment expand
into universal slaughter) have proved this beyond
all doubt. All anti-war discussions are as useless
as an attempt to stop a dog-fight by an eloquent
and convincing speech — pointing out to the dogs
that it would be better to share the piece of meat
they are struggling over, rather than to bite one
another and lose the piece of meat which is bound to
be carried off by some passing non-combatant dog.

We are rushing on towards the precipice, and
cannot stop but are tumbling over it.

No rational man who reflects on the present
position of humanity and on what its future must
inevitably be, can help seeing that there is no
practical way out; that it is impossible to devise
any alliance or organization that can save us fiom
the destruction into which we are uncontrollably
rushing.

Quite apart from the economic problems which
become more and more complex, the mutual
relations of states arming against one another and
the wars that are ready at any moment to break
out, clearly indicate the unavoidable destruction
awaiting so-called civilized humanity.

Then what is to be done?

VI

Towards the close of his mission Jesus proclaimed a
new society. Before his time nations belonged to one or
several masters and were their property like so many
herds. Princes and grandees crushed the world with all
the weight of their pride and their rapacity. Then Jesus

220 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

came to put an end to this extreme disorder. He came
to lift the bowed heads, to emancipate the slaves. He
taught them that as they are equal before God, so men
are free in regard to each other, and that no one has any
intrinsic power over his brothers, that the divine laws
of the human race — equality and liberty — are inviolable;
that power cannot be a right, but is a social duty, a
service, a kind of bondage freely accepted for the welfare
of all. Such is the society which Jesus establishes.

Is that what we now see in the world? Is that the
doctrine which reigns on earth? Has it conquered the
Gentiles? Are the rulers of the nations the servants, or
the masters, of their people? For eighteen centuries
generation after generation passes on the teaching of
Christ and says that it believes in it. But what change
is there in the world? The nations — crushed and suffer-
ing— are still awaiting the promised liberation not
because Christ's words were untrue or unreal, but
because the people either did not understand that the
fruits of the teaching must be secured by an effort of
their own will, or because numbed by their humiliations
they did not do the one thing that brings victory — they
were not ready to die for the truth. But they will awaken ;
something is already stirring within them; they have
heard as it were a voice that cries: *Salvation draws

nigh.' LAMENNAIS.

To the glory of humanity it must be said that the
nineteenth century tends to approach a new path. It
has learned that laws and tribunals should exist for
nations, and that, because they are accomplished on
a larger scale, crimes committed by nations against
nations are not less hateful than crimes committed
amongst individuals. QUETELET.

All men are one in origin, one in the law that governs
them, and one in the goal they are destined to attain.

Your faith must be one, your actions one, and one
the banner under which you contend. Acts, tears, and
martyrdoms, form a language common to all men and
which all men understand. j. MAZZINI.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 229

No, I appeal to the revolt of the conscience of every
man who has seen, or made, the blood of his fellow
citizens flow; it is not enough that one single head should
carry a burden as heavy as that of so many murders; as
many heads as there are combatants would not be too
many. In order to be responsible for the law of blood
which they execute, it would be just that they should at
least have understood it. But the best organizations
which I advocate would in themselves be only tem-
porary; for I repeat once more, that armies and war
will only lai»t awhile; as, notwithstanding the words of
a sophist which I have elsewhere controverted, it is not
true that war, even against the foreigner, is divine; it
is not true that the earth is thirsting jor blood. War is
accursed of God and even of those men who make it and
who have a secret horror of it; and the earth cries to
heaven praying for fresh water in its rivers, and for the
pure dew of its clouds. ALFRED DE VIGNY.

Men are made as little to coerce as to obey, and
mutually deprave one another by those two habits. Here
stultification, there insolence, nowhere true human
dignity. v. p. CONSIDER A.NT.

If my soldiers were to begin to think, not one of them
would remain in the army. FREDERICK THE GREAT.

Two thousand years ago John the Baptist, and
after him Jesus, said to the people: 'The time is
fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God is at hand.
Bethink yourselves (/zcravoctre) and believe in the
Gospel.' (Mark i. 15.) 'And if you do not bethink
yourselves you will all perish.' (Luke xiii. 5.)

But men did not listen, and the destruction fore-
told is already near at hand, as men of our time
cannot but see. We are already perishing, and
therefore we cannot close our ears to that means of
salvation given of old, but new to us. We cannot
but see that besides all the other calamities that

230 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

flow from our evil and irrational life, military
preparations alone and the wars resulting from
them must inevitably destroy us. We cannot but
see that all the practical means devised for escape
from these evils are and must be ineffectual, and
that the disastrous plight of nations arming them-
selves one against another must continually become
worse. Therefore the words of Jesus apply to us
and our time more than to anyone else or any other
time.

He said, 'Bethink yourselves!' — that is, let every
man interrupt his work and ask himself: Who am
I? Whence have I come? And what is my voca-
tion? And having answered these questions let him
decide, according to the answer, whether what he
does is in accord with his vocation. It is only
necessary for each man of our world and time (that
is each man acquainted with the essence of the
Christian teaching) to interrupt his activity for
a minute, forget what people consider him to be —
emperor, soldier, minister, or journalist — and
seriously ask himself who he is and what is his
vocation, and he will at once doubt the utility,
rightfulness, and reasonableness of his activity.
'Before I am emperor, soldier, minister, or journal-
ist,5 every man of our Christian world should say
to himself, 'before all else I am a man, that is, an
organic being sent by the higher will into a uni-
verse endless in time and space, where after staying
in it for an instant, I shall die — that is disappear
from it. Therefore all those personal, social, or
even universal human aims which I set before
myself and which are set before me by men, are
insignificant because of the brevity of my life as
well as the illimitability of the life of the universe,
and should be subordinated to that higher aim for
the attainment of which I am sent into the world.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 231

That ultimate aim, owing to my limitations, is not
apprehended by me, but it exists (as there must be
a purpose in everything that exists), and my busi-
ness is to be its tool. My vocation therefore is to
be God's workman, fulfilling His work.' And hav-
ing understood his vocation in this way, every man
of our world and time, from emperor to soldier,
cannot help seeing with different eyes the duties
which he has taken upon himself or which others
have laid upon him.

'Before I was crowned and recognized as Em-
peror,' the Emperor should say to himself, 'before
I undertook to fulfil the duties of head of the state,
I promised by the very fact that I am alive, to
fulfil what is demanded of me by that higher will
which sent me into life. I not only know those
demands but I feel them in my heart. They con-
sist, as is said in the Christian law which I profess,
in submitting to the will of God and fulfilling what
it requires of me, namely, that I should love my
neighbour, serve him, and do to him as I would
wish him to do to me. Am I doing this by ruling
men, ordering violence, executions, and most
dreadful of all — wars?

'Men tell me that I ought to do this. But God
says that I ought to do something quite different.
And therefore, however much I may be told that as
head of the state I must order deeds of violence,
the levying of taxes, executions, and above all war
— that is the killing of my fellow men — I do not
wish to, and cannot, do these things.5

And the soldier who is instigated to kill men
should say the same thing to himself, and so
should the minister who deems it his duty to pre-
pare for war and the journalist who incites men
to war, and every man who has put to himself the
question who he is and what is his vocation in life.

232 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

And as soon as the head of the state ceases to direct
war, the soldier to fight, the minister to prepare
means for war, and the journalist to incite men
thereto — then without any new institutions, de-
vices, balance of power, or tribunals, that hopeless
position in which people have placed themselves
not only as regards war but as regards all their other
self-inflicted calamities will cease to exist.

So that, strange as this may seem, the surest and
most certain deliverance for men from all their
self-inflicted calamities, even the most dreadful of
them — war — is attainable not by any external
general measures but by that simple appeal to the
consciousness of each individual man which was
presented by Jesus nineteen hundred years ago —
that every man should bethink himself and ask
himself who he is, why he lives, and what he should
and should not do.

VII

There is a widespread impression abroad that religion
may not be a permanent element in human nature.
Many are telling us that it is a phase of thought, of
feeling, of life, peculiar to the early and comparatively
uncultivated stages of man's career, that it is something
which civilized man will progressively outgrow and at
last leave behind. ... I do not think we need be specially
troubled over this problem. We ought to be able to
look at it dispassionately, because if religion is only
superstition, why then of course it ought to be outgrown.
, . . If on the other hand religion is divine, if it is essential
to the highest and noblest human life, then criticism and
question will only verify this fact. ... If you find some
mark on a coin, if you find it on every one of the coins,
you feel perfectly certain that there is some reality in the
die that stamps the coin, which accounts for that mark.
It was not there for nothing, it did not simply happen.

So wherever you find any universal or permanently
characteristic quality in human nature, or any other

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 233

nature for that matter, you may feel perfectly certain
that there is something real in the universe that corre-
sponds to it and called it out.

You find man, then, universally a religious being.
You find him everywhere believing that he is confronted
with an invisible universe. On any theory you choose to
hold about this universe, it has made us what we are;
and there must be — unless the universe is a lie — a reality
corresponding to that which is universal and permanent
and real in ourselves, because this universe has called
these things into being and has made them what they are.
MINOT j. SAVAGE, The Passing and the Permanent

in Religion.

The religious clement, contemplated from that
elevated standpoint, becomes thus the highest and noblest
factor in man's education, the greatest potency in his
civilization, while effete creeds and political selfishness
are the greatest obstacles to human advance. Statecraft
and priestcraft are the very opposite of religion. . . . Our
study here has shown the religious substance everywhere
to be identical, eternal, and divine, permeating the
human heart wherever it throbs, feels, and meditates.
. . . The logical results of our researches all point to the
identical basis of the great religions, to the one doctrine
unfolding since the dawn of humanity to this day. . . .
Deep at the bottom of all the creeds flows the stream
of the one eternal revelation, the one religion, the 'word
of God to the mind of man*.

Let the Parsee wear his taavids, the Jew his phylac-
teries, the Christian his cross, and the Moslem his
crescent; but let them all remember that these are forms
and emblems, while the practical essence is: 'Thou shalt
love thy neighbour as thyself* — equally emphasized and
accentuated by Manu, Zoroaster, Buddha, Abraham,
Moses, Socrates, Hill el, Jesus, Paul, and Mohammed.

MAURICE FLEUGEL.

No true society can exist without a common faith and
common purpose. Political activity is their application,
and religion supplies their principle. Where this common

234 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

faith is lacking the will of the majority rules, showing
itself in constant instability and the oppression of others.
Without God it is possible to coerce, but not to persuade.
Without God the majority will be a tyrant, but not an
educator of the people.

What we need, what the people need, what the age
is crying for that it may find an issue from the slough
of selfishness, doubt, and negation in which it is sub-
merged— is faith, in which our souls, ceasing to wander
in search of individual ends, can march together in
consciousness of one origin, one law, one goal. Everv
strong faith that arises on the ruins of old and outlived
beliefs, changes the existing social order, for every strong
faith inevitably influences all departments of human
activity.

In different forms and different degrees, humanity
repeats the words of the Lord's prayer: 'Thy kingdom
come on earth as in heaven.' MAZZINI.

A man may regard himself as an animal among
animals, living for the passing day, or he may consider
himself as a member of a family, a society, or a nation,
living for centuries ; or he may and even must (for reason
irresistibly prompts him to this) consider himself as part
of the whole infinite universe existing eternally. And
therefore a reasonable man, besides his relation to the
immediate facts of life, must always set up his relation
to the whole immense Infinite in time and space, con-
ceived as one whole. And such establishment of man's
relation to that whole of which he feels himself to be a
part and from which he draws guidance for his actions,
is what has been called and is called religion. And
therefore religion always has been, and cannot cease to
be, a necessary and indispensable condition of the life
of a reasonable man and of all reasonable humanity.
LEO TOLST6Y, What is Religion?

Religion (regarded objectively) is the recognition of
all our duties as the commands of God. . . .

There is only one true religion, though there may be
various faiths. KANT.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 235

The evil from which men of our time are suffer-
ing comes from the fact that the majority of them
live without what alone affords a rational guidance
for human activity, namely religion — not a religion
that consists in a belief in dogmas, the fulfilment
of rites affording a pleasant diversion, consolation,
or stimulant, but a religion which establishes the
relation of man to the All, to God, and therefore
gives a general higher direction to all human
activity, and without which people stand on the
plane of animals, or even lower than they. This
evil, leading men to inevitable destruction, has
shown itself with particular strength in our time,
because men, having lost a rational guidance in
life and having directed all their efforts to dis-
coveries and improvements chiefly in the sphere
of technical knowledge, have developed enormous
power over the forces of nature, but lacking guid-
ance for its rational application have naturally used
it for the satisfaction of their lower animal impulses.
Bereft of religion, men possessing enormous
power over the forces of nature are like children to
whom gunpowder or explosive gas has been given
as a plaything. Considering this power that men
of our time possess, and the way they use it, one
feels that their degree of moral development does
not really qualify them to use railways, steam-
power, electricity, telephones, photography, wire-
less telegraphy, or even to manufacture iron and
steel — for they use all these things merely to satisfy
their desires, amuse themselves, become dissipated,
and destroy one another.

Then what is to be done? Discard all these im-
provements, all this power mankind has acquired?
Forget what it has learnt? That is impossible ! How-
ever harmfully these mental acquisitions are used,
they are still acquisitions, and men cannot forget

236 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

them. Alter those combinations of nations which
have been formed during centuries and establish
new ones? Invent new institutions which would
prevent the minority from deceiving and exploit-
ing the majority? Diffuse knowledge? All this has
been tried and is being tried with great fervour.
All these supposed improvements supply a chiei
means to distract and divert men's attention from
the consciousness of inevitable destruction. The
boundaries of states are altered, institutions are
changed, knowledge is disseminated, but with
these other boundaries, other organizations, and
increased knowledge, men remain the same beasts
ready at any moment to tear each other to pieces,
or the same slaves they always have been and will
be as long as they continue to be guided not by
religious consciousness but by passions, theories,
and external suggestions.

Man has no choice : he must be the slave of the
most unscrupulous and insolent among slaves, or
else a servant of God, because there is but one
way for man to be free — by uniting his will with the
will of God. Some people bereft of religion re-
pudiate religion itself, others regard as religion
those external perverted forms that have super-
seded it, and guided only by their personal desires —
by fear, human laws, or chiefly by mutual hypno-
tism— they cannot cease to be animals or slaves,
and no external efforts can release them from this
state, for religion alone makes man free.

And most men of our time lack it.

VIII

Do not that which thy conscience condemns, and say
not that which does not agree with truth. Fulfil this, the
most important duty, and thou wilt have fulfilled all
the object of thy life.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 237

No one can coerce thy will, it is accessible neither to
thief nor robber; desire not that which is unreasonable,
desire general welfare, and not personal as do the
majority of men. The object of life is not to be on the
side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in
the ranks of the insane. . . .

Remember that there is a God who desires not praise
nor glory from men created in his image, but rather that
they, guided by the understanding given them, should
in their actions become like unto him. A fig tree is true
to its purpose, so is the dog, so also are bees. Then is
it possible that man shall not fulfil his vocation? But,
alas, these great and sacred truths vanish from thy
memory, the bustle of daily life, war, unreasonable fear,
spiritual debility, and the habit of being a slave, stifle
them. . . .

A small branch cut from the main branch has become
thereby separated from the whole tree. A man in emnity
with another man is severed from the whole of mankind.
But a branch is cut off by another's hand, whereas man
estranges himself from his neighbour by hatred and spite,
without it is true knowing that thereby he tears himself
away from the whole of mankind. But the Divinity
having called men into common life as brothers, has
endowed them with freedom to become reconciled to
each other after dissension. MARCUS AURELIUS.

Enlightenment is the escape of man from his own
childishness, which he himself maintains. The childish-
ness consists in his incapacity to use his reason without
another's guidance. He himself maintains this childishness
when it is the result of an insufficiency, not of reason but
of the decision and manliness to use it without another *s
guidance. 'Sapere aude!'

Hav.e the manliness to use thine own reason. This is
the motto of enlightenment. KANT.

One must extricate the religion Jesus professed from
the religion of which Jesus is the object. And when we
have laid our finger upon the state of conscience which

238 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

is the original cell, the basis of the eternal Gospel, we
must hold on to it.

As the faint illuminations of a village festival, or the
miserable candles of a procession, disappear before the
great marvel of the sun's light, so also small local
miracles, accidental and doubtful, will flicker out before
the law of the world of the Spirit, before the incom-
parable spectacle of human history guided by God.

AMIEL, Fragments d'un journal intime.

I recognize the following proposition as needing no
proof: all by which man thinks he can please God,
save a good life, is merely religious error and super-
stition. KANT.

In reality there is only one means of worshipping
God — it is by the fulfilment of one's duties, and by acting
in accord with the laws of reason.

G. C. LICHTENBERG.

'But in order to abolish the evil from which we
are suffering,3 those who are preoccupied by various
practical activities will say, 'it would be necessary
not for a few men only, but all men, to bethink
themselves, and having done so to understand the
vocation of their lives to lie in the fulfilment of the
will of God and the service of their neighbour.
Is that possible?'

Not only is it possible, I reply, but it is impos-
sible that it should not be so.

It is impossible for men not to bethink themselves
— impossible, that is, for each man not to put to
himself the question who he is, and why he lives ;
for man as a rational being cannot live without
a knowledge of why he lives, and has always put
that question to himself, and according to the
degree of his development has always answered
it in his religious teaching. In our time the inner
contradiction men feel themselves to be in, pre-

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 239

sents this question with particular insistence and
demands an answer. It is impossible for men of
our time to answer this question otherwise than by
recognizing the law of life to lie in love to men and
the service of them, for this for our time is the only
rational answer as to the meaning of human life,
and this answer was expressed nineteen hundred
years ago in the Christian religion and is known
in the same way to the great majority of all
mankind.

This answer lives in a latent state in the con-
sciousness of all people of the Christian world of
our time. It does not openly express itself and
serve as guidance for our life, only because on the
one hand those who enjoy the greatest authority —
the so-called scientists — being under the coarse
delusion that religion is a temporary stage in the
development of mankind which they have out-
grown, and that men can live without religion,
impress this error on those of the masses who are
beginning to be educated, and on the other hand
because those in power consciously or uncon-
sciously (being themselves under the delusion that
the Church faith is the Christian religion) try to
support and promote in people the crude supersti-
tions that are given out as the Christian religion.

If only these two deceptions were destroyed,
true religion, which is already latent in people of
our time, would become evident and obligatory.

To bring this about it is necessary that, on the
one hand, men of science should understand that
the principle of the brotherhood of all men and
the rule of not doing to others what one does not
wish for oneself, is not a casual conception, one
of a multitude of human theories that can be
subordinated to other considerations, but is an
indubitable principle standing higher than other

240 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

perceptions and flowing from the unalterable
relations of man to the eternal — to God — and is
religion, all religion, and therefore always obli-
gatory.

On the other hand it is necessary that those who
consciously or unconsciously preach crude super-
stitions under the guise of Christianity, should
understand that all these dogmas, sacraments, and
rites which they support and preach, are not
harmless as they suppose, but are in the highest
degree harmful, concealing from men that one
religious truth which is expressed in the fulfilment
of God's will — the brotherhood of man and service
of man — and that the rule of doing to others as
you wish others to do to you is not one of the
prescriptions of the Christian religion but is the
whole of practical religion, as is said in the Gospels.

That men of our time should uniformly place
before themselves the question of the meaning of
life, and uniformly answer it, it is only necessary
for those who regard themselves as enlightened to
cease to think and impress on others that religion
is atavistic — the survival of a savage past — and
that for the good life of men a spreading of educa-
tion is sufficient, that is, the spread of very mis-
cellaneous knowledge which is somehow to bring
men to justice and a moral life.1 These men should
understand instead that for the good life of
humanity religion is vital, and that this religion
already exists and lives in the consciousness of the
men of our time; and people who are intentionally
and unintentionally stupefying the people by
Church superstitions should cease to do so, and
should recognize that what is important and

1 See in the essay Religion and Morality (vol. xii of the Centen-
ary Edition, p. 192) Tolstoy's reply to Thomas Huxley'i
Romanes Lecture in 1894. — A. M.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 241

obligatory in Christianity is not baptism, or the
sacraments, or the profession of dogmas, and so
forth, but only love to God and one's neighbour,
and the fulfilment of the command to act towards
others as you wish others to act towards you, and
that in this is all the law and the prophets.

If only this were understood both by pseudo-
Christians and by men of science, and these simple,
clear, and necessary truths were preached to child-
ren and to the uneducated, as they now preach their
complicated, confused, and unnecessary theories, all
men would understand the meaning of their lives
uniformly and recognize the same duties as flowing
therefrom.

IX

(A letter from a Russian peasant who refused Military

Service]

On October I5th, 1895, I was called up for conscrip-
tion. When my turn came to diaw the lot I said I
would not do so. The officials looked at me, consulted
together, and asked me why I refused.

I answered that it was because I was not going either
to take the oath or to cairy a gun.

They said that that would be seen to later, but now
I must draw the lot.

I refused once more. Then they told the village Elder
to draw the lot. He did so and number 674 came out.
It was written down.

The military commander entered, called me into his
office, and asked: *Who taught you all this — that you
don't want to take the oath?'

*J learnt it myself by reading the Gospel,' I answered.

'I don't think you are able to understand the Gospel,'
he replied. 'Everything there is incomprehensible. To
understand it one has to learn a great deal.'

To this I said that Jesus did not teach anything

242 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

incomprehensible, for even the simplest uneducated
people understood his teaching.

Then he told a soldier to take me to the barracks.
I went to the kitchen with him and we had dinner there.

After dinner they asked me why I had not taken the
oath.

'Because it is said in the Gospel: Swear not at all,'
I replied.

They were astonished. Then they asked me: 'Is that
really in the Gospel? Find it for us.'

I found the passage, read it out, and they listened.

'But even if it is there,' they said, 'you can't refuse to
take the oath or you'll be tortured.'

'Who loses his earthly life will inherit eternal life,'
I replied. . . .

On the 2Oth I was placed in a row with other young
soldiers, and the military rules were explained to us.
I told them that I would fulfil nothing of this. They
asked why.

I said: 'Because as a Christian I will not bear arms
or defend myself from enemies, for Christ commanded
us to love even our enemies.'

'But are you the only Christian?' they asked. 'Why,
we are all Christians!'

'I know nothing about others,' I replied. 'I only
know for myself that Jesus told us to do what I am now
doing.'

The commander said: 'If you won't drill, I'll let you
rot in prison.'

To this I replied: 'Do what you like with me, but I
won't serve.'

To-day a commission examined me. The general said
to the officers : 'What opinions has this suckling got hold
of that he refuses service? Millions serve, and he alone
refuses. Have him well flogged, then he will change his
views. . . .'

Olkhovfk was transported to the Amur. On the
steamer everybody fasted during Lent, but he refused.
The soldiers asked him why. He explained. Another
soldier (Sereda) joined in the conversation. Olkhovik

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 243

opened the Gospel and began to read the fifth chapter
of Matthew. Having read it, he said : 'Jesus forbids the
oath, courts of justice, and war, but all this is done
among us and is considered legitimate.' A crowd of
soldiers had collected around, and remarked that
Sereda was not wearing a cross on his neck. 'Where is
your cross?' they asked.

'In my box,' he answered.

They asked again: 'Why don't you wear it?'

'Because I love Jesus/ he replied, 'and so I can*t
wear the thing on \\hich he was crucified.'

Then two non-commissioned officers came up and
began talking to Sereda. They said: 'How is it that not
long ago you used to fast, but now you have taken off
your cross?'

He replied : 'Because I was then in the dark and did not
see the light, but now I have begun to read the Gospel
and have learnt that a Christian need not do all that.'

Then they said: 'Does this mean that like Olkhovik
you won't serve?'

'Yes,' he replied.

They asked why, and he answered: 'Because I am
a Christian, and Christians must not take arms against
men.'

Sereda was arrested, and together with Olkhovik was
exiled to the province of Yakutsk, where they now are.
From The Letters of P. V. Olkhovik.

On January 2yth, 1894, in the Voronezh prison
hospital, a man named Drozhin, formerly a village
teacher in Kursk province, died of pneumonia. His body
was thrown into a grave in the prison cemetery like the
bodies of all the criminals who die in the prison. Yet
he was one of the saintliest, purest, and most truthful
men that ever lived.

In August 1891 he was called up for conscription,
but, considering all men to be his brothers and regarding
murder and violence as the greatest sins against con-
science and the will of God, he refused to be a soldier
and to bear arms. Also, considering it a sin to surrender
his will into the power of others who might demand

244 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

evil actions of him, he refused to take the oath. Men
whose lives are founded on violence and murder con-
demned him first to one year's solitary confinement in
Kharkov, but later he was transferred to the Voronezh
penal battalion where for fifteen months he was tortured
by cold, hunger, and solitary confinement. Finally,
when consumption developed from his incessant suffer-
ings and privations and he was recognized as unfit for
military service, he was transferred to the civil prison
where he was to remain confined for another nine years.
But while being transferred from the penal battalion
to the prison on an extremely frosty day, the police
officials neglected to furnish him with a warm coat.
The party remained for a long time in the street in front
of the police station, and this caused him to catch such
a cold that pneumonia set in from which he died twenty-
two days later.

The day before his death Drozhin said to the doctor:
'Though I have not lived long, I die with a consciousness
of having acted in accord with my convictions and my
conscience. Others of course may judge about this
better than I can. Perhaps . . . no, I think that I am
right/ he concluded.

From The Life and Death of Drozhin.

Put on the whole armour of God that ye may be able
to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our wrestling
is not against flesh and blood, but against the princi-
palities, against the powers, against the world-rulers of
this darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness
in high places.

Wherefore take up the whole armour of God, that ye
may be able to withstand in the evil day, and, having
done all, to stand.

Stand therefore, having girded your loins with truth,
and having put on the breastplate of righteousness.

EPHESIANS vi. 11-14.

But I shall be asked, how are we to act now —
immediately, among ourselves in Russia at this

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 245

moment when our foes are already attacking us,
are killing our people and threatening us? How
is a Russian soldier, officer, general, tsar, or private
individual, to act? Are we really to let our enemies
ruin our dominions, seize the products of our
labour, carry off prisoners, and kill our men?
What are we to do now that this thing has begun?

'But before the work of war began,' every man
who has reflected should reply, * before all else, the
work of my life had begun.' And the work of my
life has nothing to do with recognition of the rights
of the Chinese, Japanese, or Russians, to Port
Arthur. The work of my life consists in fulfilling
the will of Him who sent me into this life. And that
will is known to me. That will is that I should love
my neighbour and serve him. Then why should I
— following temporary, casual demands that are
cruel and irrational — deviate from the eternal and
changeless law of my whole life? If there is a God,
He wrill not ask me when I die (which may happen
at any moment) whether I retained Chinnampo
with its timber stores, or Port Arthur, or even that
conglomeration which is called the Russian Em-
pire, which He did not entrust to my care. He
will ask me what I have done with that life which
He has put at my disposal. Did I use it for the
purpose for which it was intended and under whose
conditions it was entrusted to me? Have I fulfilled
His law?

So that to this question as to what is to be done
now that war has begun, for me, a man who
understands his vocation, whatever position I may
occupy, there can be no other answer than this —
that whatever the circumstances may be, whether
the war has begun or not, whether thousands of
Russians or Japanese have been killed, whether
not only Port Arthur but St. Petersburg and

246 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

Moscow have been captured — I cannot act other-
wise than as God demands of me, and that there-
fore I as a man cannot either directly or indirectly,
whether by organizing, helping, or inciting to it,
take part in war. / cannot, I do not wish to, and I will
not. What will happen immediately or later from
my ceasing to do what is contrary to the will of
God I do not and cannot know, but I believe that
from fulfilling the will of God nothing can follow
but what is good for me and for all men.

You speak with horror of what would happen if
we Russians at once ceased to fight and yielded to
the Japanese all that they wish of us.

But if it be true that the salvation of mankind
from brutalization and self-destruction lies solely
in the establishment among men of true religion,
demanding that we should love our neighbour
and serve him (with which it is impossible to dis-
agree) then every war, every hour of war, and my
participation in it, only renders the realization of
this only possible means of salvation more difficult
and remote.

So that even looking at it from your precarious
point of view — appraising actions by their pre-
sumed consequences — even so, a yielding by the
Russians to the Japanese of all that they desire
of us, apart from the unquestionable advantage of
ending the ruin and slaughter, would be an
approach to the only means of saving mankind
from destruction, whereas the continuance of the
war, however it may end, would hinder that only
means of salvation.

'But even if this be so,' people reply, 'wars can
cease only when all men, or the majority of them,
refuse to participate in them. The refusal of one
man, whether he be Tsar or soldier, would only
unnecessarily ruin his life, without the least ad-

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 247

vantage to anyone. If the Russian Tsar were now
to renounce the war he would be dethroned, per-
haps killed to get rid of him. If an ordinary man
were to refuse military service he would be sent
to a penal battalion, or perhaps shot. Why then
uselessly throw away one's life, which might be of
use to society?* is usually said by those who do not
think of the vocation of their whole life and there-
fore do not understand it.

But this is not what is said and felt by a man who
understands the purpose of his life, that is, by a
religious man. Such a one is guided in his activity
not by the conjectural consequences of his actions
but by the consciousness of the purpose of his life.
A factory workman goes to the factory and in it
does the work allotted to him without considering
what will be the consequence of his work. In the
same way a soldier acts, carrying out the will of his
commanders. So acts a religious man, doing the
work prescribed to him by God without arguing as
to just what will come of his work. And so for
a religious man there is no question as to whether
many or few men act as he does, or of what may
happen to him if he does what he should do. He
knows that besides life and death nothing can hap-
pen, and that life and death are in the hands of
God whom he obeys.

A religious man acts so and no otherwise not
because he wishes to act thus or because it is
advantageous to him or to others, but because,
believing that his life is in the hands of God, he
cannot do otherwise.

In this lies the speciality of the activity of religious
men.

And so the salvation of men from the ills they
inflict upon themselves will be accomplished only
to the extent to which they are guided in their lives

248 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

not by advantages or arguments, but by religious
consciousness.

. . . Men of God are that hidden salt which conserves
the world, for the things of the world are conserved only
in so far as the Divine salt does not lose its power. 'But
if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith can it be
salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast
out, and to be trodden under foot of men. . . . He that
has ears to hear, let him hear.' As for us, we are per-
secuted when God gives the tempter the power to perse-
cute, but when He does not wish to subject us to sufferings
we enjoy wonderful peace even in this world which hates
us, and we rely on the protection of Him who said :
'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'

Celsus also says that: 'It is impossible that all the
inhabitants of Asia, Europe, and Libia, Greeks as well
as barbarians, should follow one and the same law. To
think so,' he says, 'means to understand nothing.' But
we say that not only is it possible, but that the day will
come when all reasonable beings will unite under one
law. For the Word or Reason will subdue all reasonable
beings and transform them into its own perfection.

There are bodily diseases and wounds which no
doctoring can cure, but it is not so with the ailments of
the soul. There is no evil the cure of which is impossible
for supreme Reason, which is God.

ORIGEN, Origen against Celsus.

I feel the force stirring within me which in time will
reform the world.

It does not push or obtrude, but I am conscious of it
drawing gently and irresistibly at my vitals.

And I see that as I am attracted, so I begin un-
accountably to attract others.

I draw them and they in turn draw me, and we
recognize a tendency to group ourselves anew. Get in
touch with the great central magnet, and you will your-
self become a magnet. And as more and more of us find
our bearings and exert our powers, gradually the new

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 249

world will take shape. We become indeed legislators

of the divine law, receiving it from God Himself, and

human laws shrink and dry up before us.
And I asked the force within my soul : 'Who art thou ?'
And it answered and said: *I am Love, the Lord of

Heaven, and I would be called Love, the Lord of Earth.

I am the mightiest of all the heavenly hosts, and I am

come to create the state that is to be.'

ERNEST CROSBY, Plain Talk in Psalm and Parable.

One can say with certainty that the kingdom of God
has come to us when the principle of the gradual trans-
formation of the church faith into a universal rational
religion is found openly established anywhere, though the
complete realization of that kingdom may still be in-
finitely far from us — for this principle, like a developing
and then multiplying germ, already contains all \\hich
must enlighten and take possession of the world.

In the life of the universe a thousand years are as one
day. We must labour patiently for this realization, and
wait for it. KANT.

When I speak to thee about God, do not think that
I am speaking to thce about some object made of gold
or silver. The God of whom I speak to thee, thou feelest
in thy soul. Thou bearest Him in thyself, and by thy
impure thoughts and loathsome acts thou defilest His
image in thy soul. In the presence of a golden idol which
thou regardest as God, thou refrainest from doing aught
that is unseemly, but in the presence of that God who in
thee thyself sees and hears all, thou does not even blush
when thou yieldest thyself to thy disgusting thoughts and
actions.

If only we remembered that God in us is the witness
of all that we do and think, we should cease to sin, and
God would constantly abide in us. Let us then remember
God, and think and talk of Hin as often as possible.

EPICTETUS.

'But how about the enemies that are attacking
us?'

250 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

'Love your enemies and you will have none,' is
said in the Teaching of the Twelve Apostles. And this
answer is not mere words as those may imagine
who are accustomed to think that the injunction
to love one's enemies is something parabolical and
signifies not what it says but something else. It
is the indication of a very clear and definite
activity and of its consequences.

To love , one's enemies — the Japanese, the
Chinese, those Yellow peoples towards whom
erring men are now trying to excite our hatred —
to love them does not mean to kill them in order
to have a right to poison them with opium, as
was done by the English,1 or to kill them in order
to seize their land, as was done by the French, the
Russians, and the Germans; or to bury them alive
as punishment for injuring roads, or to tie them
together by their hair and drown them in the
Amur, as the Russians did.

8 A disciple is not above his master. . . . It is
enough for a disciple that he be as his master.'

To love the Yellow people, whom we call our
foes, does not mean to teach them, under the name
of Christianity, absurd superstitions about the fall of
man, redemption, resurrection, and so on; or to
teach them the art of deceiving and killing people,
but to teach them justice, unselfishness, compassion,
love, and that not in words but by the example of
our own good life.

But what have we done and are doing to them?

If we did indeed love our enemies, if even now
we began to love our enemies the Japanese, we
should have no enemy.

1 'The public conscience was wounded by a war with
China in 1839 on its refusal to allow the smuggling of opium
into its dominions.' J. R. Green (Short History of the English
).-&. M.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 251

So, strange as it may appear to people occupied
with military plans, preparations, diplomatic con-
siderations, administrative, financial, economic
measures, revolutionary and socialistic sermons,
and various unnecessary sciences by which they
think to free mankind from its calamities — the
delivery of man not only from the calamities of
war, but from all his self-inflicted ills — will be
effected, not through emperors or kings instituting
peace unions, not by those who would dethrone
emperors or kings, or limit them by constitutions,
or replace monarchies by republics, not by peace
conferences, not by the accomplishment of social-
istic programmes or by victories or defeats on
land or sea, or by libraries or universities, or by
those futile mental exercises which are now called
science, but only by there being more and more
of those simple men like the Doukhobors, Drozhfn,
and Olkhovfk in Russia, the Nazarines in Austria,
Condatier in France, Tervey in Holland, and
others who set themselves the aim not of external
alterations of life but of their own most faithful
fulfilment of the will of Him who sent them into
life, and direct all their powers to that fulfilment.
Only such people, realizing the kingdom of God
in themselves, in their souls, will without aiming
directly at that purpose, establish that external
kingdom of God which every human soul desires.
Salvation will come about only in this one way
and not by any other. And what is now being
done by those who, ruling others, instil into them
religious and patriotic superstitions, exciting them
to exclusiveness, hatred, and murder — as well as
by those who to free men from enslavement and
oppression invoke them to violent external revolu-
tion, or think that the acquisition by men of very
much incidental, and for the most part unnecessary,

252 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

knowledge, will of itself bring them to a good life —
all this, distracting men from what alone they need,
merely removes them farther from the possibility
of salvation.

The evil from which people of the Christian
world suffer is that they are temporarily deprived
of religion.

Some people, convinced of the discord between
existing religion and the state of mental, scientific
development attained by humanity in our time,
have decided in general that no religion whatever
is necessary. They live without religion and preach
the uselessness of any religion whatever. Others,
holding to the distorted form of the Christian
religion in which it is now preached, also live
without religion, professing empty external forms
which cannot serve as guidance for men's lives.

Yet a religion which answers to the demands of
our time exists, is known to all men, and lives in
a latent state in the hearts of men of the Christian
world. And that this religion should become
evident to and binding upon all men, it is only
necessary that educated men — the leaders of the
masses — should understand that religion is neces-
sary to man, that without religion men cannot
live good lives, and that what they call science
cannot replace religion. And men in power who
support the old empty forms of religion should
understand that what they support and preach as
religion, is not only not religion, but is the chief
obstacle to people's assimilating the true religion,
which they already know and which alone can
save them from their miseries.

So that the only true means of man's salvation
consists in merely ceasing to do what hinders men
from making the true religion which lives in their
consciousness their own.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 253

XI

A wonderful and horrible thing is come to pass in the
land ; the prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bear
rule by their means; and my people love to have it so;
and what will ye do in the end thereof?

JEREMIAH V. 30, 31.

He hath blinded their eyes, and he hardened their
heart ; lest they should see with their eyes, and perceive
with their heart, and should turn, and I should heal
them. JOHN xii. 40.

If a traveller were to see a people on some far-off
island whose houses were protected by loaded cannon
and around those houses sentinels patrolled night and
day, he could not help thinking that the island was
inhabited by brigands. Is it not thus with the European
states? How little influence has religion on people, or
how far we still are from true religion. LICHTENBERG.

I was finishing this article when news came of
the destruction of six hundred innocent lives near
Port Arthur. It would seem that the useless
suffering and death of these unfortunate, deluded
men, who have uselessly suffered a dreadful death,
ought to bring to their senses those who were the
cause of this destruction. I am not alluding to
Makarov and other officers — all those men knew
what they were doing and why, and voluntarily,
for personal advantage or for ambition, did what
they did, screening themselves under the lie of
patriotism, which is obvious but is not exposed
merely because it is universal. I mention those
unfortunate men drawn from all parts of Russia
who by the help of religious fraud and under fear
of punishment were torn from their honest,
reasonable, useful, and laborious family life and

254 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

driven to the other end of the earth, placed on a
cruel and senseless slaughtering machine, and torn
to bits or drowned in a distant sea together with
that stupid machine, without any need or any
possibility of receiving any advantage from all their
privations, efforts, and sufferings, and the death
that overtook them.

In 1830, during the Polish war, Adjutant
Vilejinsky, sent to St. Petersburg by Klopitsky, in
a conversation carried on in French with Dibitch,
replied to the latter's demands that the Russian
troops should enter Poland:

'Monsieur le Marechal, I think that it is quite
impossible for the Polish nation to accept the mani-
festo with such a condition.'

'Believe me, the Emperor will make no conces-
sion.'

'Then I foresee that unhappily there will be
war, much blood will be shed and there will be
many unfortunate victims.'

'Don't believe it! At most ten thousand men
will perish on the two sides, that is all,'1 said
Dibitch in his German accent, quite confident that
he, together with another man as cruel and alien
to Russian and Polish life as himself (Nicholas I)
had a right to condemn or not to condemn to
death ten or a hundred thousand Russians and
Poles.

One hardly believes that this could have been,
so senseless and dreadful is it, and yet it was.
Sixty thousand supporters of families perished by
the will of those men. And the same thing is
taking place now.

1 Vilejinsky adds: 'The Field Marshal did not then think
that more than sixty thousand of the Russians alone would
perish in that war, not so much from the enemy's fire as from
disease, and that he himself would be among the number.'

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 255

To keep the Japanese out of Manchuria and to
drive them out of Korea, not ten but fifty and more
thousands will in all probability be required. I
do not know whether Nicholas II and Kuropatkin
say in so many words, as Dibitch did, that not
more than fifty thousand lives will be needed for this
on the Russian side alone, and only that, but they
think it and cannot but think it, because what they
are doing speaks for itself. That unceasing flow of
unfortunate, deluded Russian peasants now being
transported by thousands to the Far East, are those
same not more than fifty thousand living Russians
whom Nicholas Romanov and Alexey Kuropatkin
have decided to sacrifice, and who will be killed
in support of those stupidities, robberies, and
nastinesses of all kinds which were being committed
in China and Korea by immoral, ambitious men,
now quietly sitting in their palaces and awaiting
fresh glory and fresh advantage and profit from
the slaughter of those fifty thousand unfortunate
defrauded Russian working men who are guilty of
nothing and gain nothing by their sufferings and
death. For other people's land, to which the
Russians have no right, which has been stolen from
its legitimate owners and which in reality the
Russians do not need — as well as for certain shady
dealings undertaken by speculators who wished to
make money in Korea out of other people's forests
— enormous sums are spent, that is, a great part
of the labour of the whole Russian people, while
future generations of that people are being bound
by debts, its best workmen withdrawn from labour,
and scores of thousands of its sons mercilessly
doomed to death. And the destruction of these
unfortunate men has already begun. More than
this: those who have hatched the war manage it
so badly, so carelessly, all is so unexpected, so

256 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

unprepared, that, as one paper remarks, Russia's
chief chance of success lies in the fact that it has
inexhaustible human material. It is on this that
those rely who send scores of thousands of Russian
men to their death !

It is plainly said that the regrettable reverses of
our fleet must be compensated for on land. In
plain language this means, that if the authorities
have managed things badly on sea and by their
carelessness have wasted not only the nation's
milliards but thousands of lives, we must make up
for this by condemning to death several more scores
of thousands on land !

Crawling locusts cross rivers in this way: the
lower layers are drowned till the bodies of the
drowned form a bridge over which those above can
pass. So now are the Russian people disposed of.

Thus the first lower layer is already beginning
to drown, showing the way for other thousands who
will likewise perish.

And do the originators, the instigators and
directors of this dreadful business begin to under-
stand their sin, their crime? Not in the least.
They are fully persuaded that they have fulfilled
and are fulfilling their duty, and they are proud of
their activity.

They talk of the loss of the brave Makarov, who
as all agree was able to kill men very cleverly, and
they deplore the loss of an excellent machine of
slaughter that cost so many millions of rubles and
has now been sunk, and they discuss how to find
another murderer as capable as poor misguided
Makarov, and they invent new and even more
efficacious tools of slaughter, and all the guilty
people engaged in this dreadful work, from the
Tsar to the humblest journalist, call with one voice
for new insanities and cruelties, and for an in-

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 257

tensification of brutality and hatred of one's
fellow men.

'Makarov was not alone in Russia and every
admiral placed in his position will follow in his
steps and will continue the plan and the idea of
him who has perished nobly in the strife/ writes
the Novoe Vremya.

'Let us earnestly pray God for those who have
laid down their lives for the sacred Fatherland, not
doubting for one moment that the Fatherland will
give us fresh sons equally valorous for the further
struggle, and will find in them an inexhaustible
supply of strength for a worthy completion of the
work/ writes the Petersburg Vedomosti.

'A virile nation will form no other conclusion
from the defeat, however unprecedented, than that
we must continue, develop, and conclude the
strife. We shall find in ourselves fresh strength,
new heroes of the spirit will appear/ writes the
Russ. And so on.

So murder and every kind of crime continue
with yet greater fury. People are enthusiastic
about the martial spirit of the volunteers who
having unexpectedly come upon fifty of their
fellow men, cut them all to pieces, or occupied
a village and massacred its whole population, or
hung or shot those accused of spying — that is, of
doing the very thing which is regarded as indis-
pensable and is constantly being done on our side.
News of these crimes is reported in pompous
telegrams to their chief director, the Tsar, who
sends his valorous troops his blessing for the con-
tinuation of such deeds.

Is it not clear that if there is a salvation from this
state of things, it is only one — that one which
Jesus teaches?

459 *

258 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

'Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his right-
eousness' (that which is within you), and all the
rest — that is, all the practical welfare for which
man is striving — will be realized of itself.

Such is the law of life: practical welfare is
attained not when man strives for it — on the con-
trary, such striving for the most part removes man
from the attainment of what he seeks — but only
when, without thinking of the attainment of prac-
tical welfare, he strives towards the most perfect
fulfilment of that which he regards as right before
God, before the Source and Law of his life. Only
then, incidentally, is practical welfare also at-
tained.

So that there is only one true salvation for men :
the fulfilment of the will of God by each individual
within himself, that is, in that portion of the uni-
verse which alone is subject to his power. In this
is the chief, the sole, vocation of every individual,
and at the same time the only means by which
every individual can influence others, and so to
this, and only to this, all the efforts of every man
should be directed.

[April ijth, o.s.9 1904.1

XII

I had only just sent off the last pages of this
article on war, when the terrible news arrived of
a fresh iniquity committed against the Russian
people by those men who, crazed by power and
lacking any sense of responsibility, have assumed
the right to dispose of them. Again those coarse
and servile slaves of slaves — the various generals —
decked out in a variety of motley garments, have
(either to distinguish themselves, or to spite one
another, or to earn the right to add another little

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 259

star, decoration, or ribbon, to their ridiculous and
ostentatious dress, or from sheer stupidity and
carelessness) destroyed thousands of those honour-
able, kindly, laborious working men who provide
them with food — and destroyed them with terrible
sufferings. And once again this iniquity not only
fails to make its perpetrators reflect or repent, but
they only tell us how still more men and still
more families (both Russian and Japanese) may
be killed and mutilated, or ruined, with the greatest
speed.

More than this, those guilty of these evil deeds —
wishing to prepare people for still more of them —
not only do not confess (what is evident to every-
body) that even from their patriotic, military point
of view, the Russians have suffered a shameful
defeat, but they even try to instil into frivolous
minds a belief that those unfortunate Russian
peasants — who were led into a trap like cattle into
a slaughter-house, and of whom several thousands
were killed and maimed simply because one general
did not understand what another general had said
— have performed an heroic feat, since those who
could not run away were killed and those who did
run away remained alive.

The drowning of many peaceful Japanese by
one of those terrible, immoral, and cruel men
extolled as generals and admirals, is also described
as a great and valorous achievement which must
gladden the hearts of the Russian people. And in
all the papers appears this horrible incitement to
murder :

'Let the two thousand Russians killed on the
Yalu, together with the maimed Retvizdn and her
sister ships, and our lost torpedo-boats, teach our
cruisers what devastating destruction they must
wreak upon the shores of base Japan. She has

260 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

sent her soldiers to shed Russian blood and no
mercy must be shown her. It is impossible to
sentimentalize now, it would be sinful. We must
fight! We must deal such heavy blows that their
memory will freeze the treacherous hearts of the
Japanese. Now is the time for our cruisers to put
to sea and reduce their towns to ashes, and to
rush like a terrible calamity along their beautiful
shores.

'There has been enough of sentimentality !'
So the frightful work goes on: loot, violence,
murder, hypocrisy, theft, and, above all, the most
fearful deceit, and the perversion of both the
Christian and the Buddhist teaching.

The Tsar, the man chiefly responsible, continues
to hold reviews of his troops, thanks them, rewards
and encourages them, and issues an edict calling
up the reserves. Again and again his loyal subjects
humbly lay their possessions and their lives at the
feet of their adored monarch, but these are only
words. In reality, desiring to distinguish them-
selves before each other in actual deeds, they tear
fathers and bread-winners away from orphaned
families and prepare them for slaughter. And the
worse the position of the Russians becomes, the
more unconscionably do the journalists lie, convert-
ing shameful defeats into victories, conscious that
no one will contradict them, and quietly gathering
in money from subscriptions and the sales of their
papers. The more money and labour is spent on
the war the more do all the chiefs and contractors
steal, knowing that no one will expose them since
everyone is doing the same. The military, trained
for murder, and having spent decades in a school
of brutality, coarseness, and idleness, rejoice (poor
fellows) because, besides getting an increase of pay,
the casualties among their superiors create vacancies

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 261

for them. Christian ministers continue to incite
men to the greatest of crimes, hypocritically calling
upon God to help in the work of war ; and instead
of condemning the pastor who, cross in hand and
at the very scene of the crime, encourages men to
murder, they justify and acclaim him. The same
thing goes on in Japan. The benighted Japanese
fling themselves into murder with even greater
ardour because of their victories, imitating all that
is worst in Europe. The Mikado also holds reviews
and bestows rewards. Different generals boast
themselves, imagining that they have acquired
Western culture by having learnt to kill. Their
poor unfortunate labouring people, torn from their
useful work and from their families, groan as ours
do. Their journalists tell lies and rejoice at an
increased circulation. And probably (for where
murder is acclaimed as heroism, every vice is
bound to flourish) all the commanders and con-
tractors make money. Nor do the Japanese
theologians and religious teachers lag behind our
European ones. As their military men are up to
date in the technique of armaments, so are their
theologians up to date in the technique of decep-
tion and hypocrisy — not merely tolerating but
justifying murder, which Buddha forbade.

The learned Buddhist Soyen-Shaku, who rules
over eight hundred monasteries, explains that
though Buddha forbade manslaughter, he also
said that he could not be at peace till all beings
are united in the infinitely loving heart of all
things; and that to bring the discordant into
harmony it is necessary to fight and kill people.1

1 In his article it is said: 'The triune world is my own
possession. All things therein are my children. . . . All are
but reflections of myself. They are all from the one source. . . .
All partake of the one body. Therefore I cannot be at rest

262 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

And it is as though the Christian and the
Buddhist teaching of the oneness of the human
spirit, the brotherhood of man, love, compassion,
and the inviolability of human life, had never
existed. Men already enlightened by the truth,
both Japanese and Russian, fly at one another like
wild beasts and worse than wild beasts, with the
sole desire to destroy as many lives as possible.
Thousands of unfortunates already groan and
writhe in cruel suffering and die in agony in
Japanese and Russian field-hospitals, asking them-
selves in perplexity why this fearful thing was done
to them; and other thousands are rotting in the
earth or on the earth, or floating in the sea,
bloated and decomposing. And tens of thousands
of fathers, mothers, wives, and children weep for
the bread-winners who have perished so uselessly.

But all this is not enough, and more and more

until every being, even the smallest possible fragment of
existence, is settled down to its proper appointment. . . .

'This is the position taken by the Buddha, and we, his
humble followers, are but to walk in his wake.

4 Why then do we fight at all.

'Because the world is not as it ought to be. Because there
are here so many perverted creatures, so many wayward
thoughts, so many ill-directed hearts, due to ignorant sub-
jectivity. For this reason Buddhists are never tired of com-
batting all the products of ignorance, and their fight must be
continued to the bitter end. They will give no quarter. They will
mercilessly destroy the very root from which arises the misery
of this life. To accomplish this they will never be afraid of
sacrificing their lives. . . .'

The quotation continues (as among us) with confused
reflections about self-sacrifice and about absence of malice,
about the transmigration of souls, and much else — all merely
to conceal Buddha's clear and simple command not to kill.

It is further said : "The hand that is raised to strike, and the
eye which is fixed to take aim, do not belong to the individual
but are the instruments utilized by the Source which stands
above our transient existence.* (From The Open Court, May
1904. Buddhist Views of War, by the Right Rev. Soyen-Shaku.)

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 263

fresh victims are continually being prepared. The
chief concern of the Russian organizers of the
slaughter is that the supply of cannon-fodder
(three thousand men a day doomed to destruction)
should not cease for a single day. The Japanese are
similarly preoccupied. The locusts are being driven
into the river incessantly, so that the later comers
may pass over the bodies of the drowned. . . .

When will it end? When will the deceived people
come to themselves and say: 'Well, go yourselves,
you heartless and Godless tsars, mikados, ministers,
metropolitans, abbots, generals, editors, and con-
tractors, or whatever you are entitled. Go your-
selves and face the shells and bullets! We don't
want to go, and won't go. Leave us in peace to
plough, sow, build, and feed you — our parasites!'
To say that would be so natural now in Russia,
amid the weeping and wailing of hundreds of
thousands of mothers, wives, and children from
whom their bread-winners — the so-called Reservists
— are being taken. Those same Reservists are for
the most part able to read. They know what the
Far East is. And they know that the war is carried
on not for anything at all necessary for the Russian
people, but on account of dealings in some alien
'leased land* (as they call it) where it seemed
advantageous to some contractors to build a rail-
way and engage on other affairs for profit. They
also know, or can know, that they will be killed
like sheep in a slaughter-house, for the Japanese
have the newest and most perfect instruments of
murder and we have not — for the Russian authori-
ties who are sending our people to death did not
think in time of procuring such weapons as the
Japanese have. Knowing all this, it would be so
natural to say: 'Go yourselves, you who started
this affair — all of you to whom the war seems

264 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

necessary and who justify it! You go and expose
yourselves to the Japanese bullets and torpedoes.
We will no longer go, because it is not only un-
necessary for us, but we cannot understand why
it should be necessary for anyone.'

But they do not say this. They go, and will go,
and cannot but go, as long as they fear that which
destroys the body, and not that which destroys
both body and soul.

'Whether they will kill or mutilate us in some
Chinnampos or whatever they are called, where
we are being driven, is uncertain,' they argue.
'Perhaps we may get away alive, and even with
rewards and glory, like those sailors who are being
so feted all over Russia just now because the
Japanese bombs and bullets hit someone else
instead of them. But if we refuse wre shall certainly
be put in prison, starved and beaten, exiled to the
province of Yakutsk, or perhaps even killed im-
mediately.' And so with despair in their hearts
they go, leaving their wives and children and their
rational lives.

Yesterday I met a reservist accompanied by his
mother and his wife. They were all three riding
in a cart. He was rather tipsy, and his wife's
face was swollen with weeping. He addressed me :

'Good-bye, Lev Nikolaevich! I'm off to the Far
East.'

'What! Are you going to fight?'

'Well, someone has to fight I'

'No one should fight!'

He considered. 'But what can I do? Where can
I escape to?9

I saw that he understood me and had under-
stood that the affair on which he was being sent
was a bad one.

' Where can I escape to ?' It is the precise expression

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 265

of the mental condition which in the official and
journalistic world is rendered by the words: Tor
the Faith, the Tsar, and the Fatherland!' Those
who go to suffering and death, abandoning their
hungry families, say what they feel : 'Where can I
escape to?' While those who sit in safety in their
luxurious palaces say that all Russians are ready
to lay down their lives for their adored monarch,
and for the glory and greatness of Russia.

Yesterday I received two letters, one after the
other, from a peasant I know.

This was the first:
'Dear Lev Nikolaevich —

'Well, to-day I have received the official announce-
ment summoning me to serve, and to-morrow I
must present myself at the place appointed. That
is all, and then to the Far East to meet Japanese
bullets.

'I will not tell you of my own and my family's
grief, for you will not fail to understand all the
horror of my position and of war. You have pain-
fully realized that long ago and understand it all.
I have all the time wished to come to see you and
talk with you. I wrote you a long letter in which I
described the torments of my soul, but I had not
had time to make a clean copy of it when I received
this summons. What is my wife to do now, with
our four children? Of course you, being an old
man, cannot do anything for my family yourself,
but you might ask some one of your friends to
visit them, just for the sake of a walk. If my wife
finds herself unable to bear the agony of her help-
lessness with all the children, and makes up her
mind to go to you for help and advice, I beg you
earnestly to receive her and console her. Though
she does not know you personally she believes in
you, and that means a great deal.

266 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

'I cannot resist the summons, but I say before-
hand that not one Japanese family shall be
orphaned by me. O God, how dreadful all this
is! How grievous and painful it is to abandon all
that one lives by and with which one is concerned.*

The second letter was this:
'Kind Lev Nikolaevich,

'Only one day of actual service has passed, but
I have already lived through an eternity of most
desperate torments. From eight o'clock in the
morning till nine in the evening we were crowded
and pushed about in the barrack yard like a herd
of cattle. The comedy of a medical examination
was repeated three times, and all who reported
themselves ill did not receive even ten minutes'
attention before they were marked Tit'. When
we, two thousand fit men, were driven from the
military commander's at the barracks, a crowd of
relations, mothers, and wives with children in
their arms, stretched out for nearly a verst along
the road, and you should have seen how they clung
to their sons and husbands and fathers, and heard
how desperately they wailed as they did so!
Usually I behave with restraint and can control
my feelings, but I could not hold out this time,
and I too wept!' (In journalistic language this
is expressed by: 'The patriotic emotion displayed
was immense.') 'How can one measure the whole-
sale woe that is now spreading over almost a third
of the world? And we, we are now food for cannon,
which in the near future will be offered up in
sacrifice to a God of revenge and horror. . . .

'I am quite unable to maintain my inner balance.
Oh, how I hate myself for this double-mindedness
which prevents my serving one Lord and God. . . .'

That man does not yet believe sufficiently that
what destroys the body is not terrible, but that is

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 267

terrible which destroys both body and soul. And
so he cannot refuse the service. But yet while
leaving his family he promises in advance that not
one Japanese family shall be orphaned through him.
He believes in the chief law of God, the law of all
religions — to do to others as you wish them to do to
you. And in our time there are not thousands
but millions of men who more or less consciously
recognize that law, not Christians only but Buddhists,
Mohammedans, Confucians, and Brahmins as well.

True heroes really exist — not those who are now
feted because, having wished to kill others, they
themselves escaped — but true heroes who are now
confined in prisons and in the province of Yakutsk
for having categorically refused to enter the ranks
of the murderers, and have preferred martyrdom
to that renunciation of the law of Christ. There are
also men like the one who wrote to me, and who
will go but will not kill. And even the majority
who go without thinking, or trying not to think, of
what they are doing, feel in the depths of their souls
that they are doing wrong to obey the authorities
who tear men from their work and their families
and send them needlessly to slaughter, a thing
repugnant to their souls and to their faith. They
only go because they are so entangled on all sides
that — * Where can I escape to?'

And those who remain at home not only feel
but know this, and express it. Yesterday on the
high road I met some peasants returning from Tula.
One of them walking beside his empty cart, was
reading a leaflet.

'What is that?' I asked. 'A telegram?'

He stopped. 'This is yesterday's, but I have
to-day's as well.'

He took another out of his pocket. We stopped
and I read it.

268 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

'You should have seen what it was like at the
station yesterday,' he said. 'It was terrible. Wives
and children — more than a thousand of them — all
crying and sobbing. They surrounded the train
but could not board it. Even strangers looking on
were in tears. One Tiila woman cried out and
died on the spot. She had five children. The
children were shoved into different asylums, but
the father was sent on all the same. . . . And what
do we want with this Manchuria or whatever it
is called? We have much land of our own. And
what a lot of people have been killed and what
a lot of money wasted. . . .*

Yes, the people's attitude to war is quite different
now from what it used to be, even in '77.' People
never reacted then as they do now.

The papers write that at receptions of the Tsar
(who is travelling about Russia to hypnotize the
people who are being sent off to slaughter) indes-
cribable enthusiasm is shown among the populace.
In reality something quite different is happen-
ing. One hears on all sides reports of how in
one place three Reservists hung themselves, in
another two more, and how a woman whose hus-
band had been taken brought her three children
to the recruiting office and left them there, while
another woman hanged herself in the yard of the
military commander's home. Everybody is dis-
satisfied, gloomy, and embittered. People no
longer react to the words: Tor the Faith, the Tsar,
and the Fatherland!', the national anthem, and
shouts of 'Hurrah!' as they used to do. A war of
a different kind, a struggling consciousness of the
wrongfulness and sin of the thing to which men
are being called, is taking place.

Yes, the great strife of our time is not that now
1 The Russo-Turkish War of 1877-8.— A. M.

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 269

taking place between the Japanese and the
Russians, nor that which may blaze up between
the White and the Yellow races. It is not the strife
carried on by torpedoes, bullets, and bombs, but
that spiritual strife which has unceasingly gone
on, and is now going on, between the enlightened
consciousness of mankind — now awaiting its mani-
festation — and the darkness and oppression which
surrounds and burdens mankind.

In his own time Christ yearned in expectation,
and said : 'I came to cast fire upon the earth, and
how I wish that it were already kindled.' (Luke
xii. 49.)

What Christ longed for is being accomplished.
The fire is kindling. Let us not check it, but
promote it.

April gothy 1904.

I should never finish this article if I continued
to add to it all that confirms its chief thought.
Yesterday news was received of the sinking of
Japanese battleships; and in what are called the
higher circles of Russian fashionable society,
wealthy and intelligent people are rejoicing, with
no prickings of conscience, at the destruction of
thousands of human lives. And to-day I have
received from a simple seaman, a man of the
lowest rank of society, the following letter:1
'Letter from seaman (here follows his Christian
name, patronymic, and family name).
'Much respected Lev Nikolaevich,

'I greet you with a low bow and with love, much
respected Lev Nikolaevich. I have read your
book. It was very pleasant reading for me. I am

1 This letter in the Russian is ungrammatical, ill-spelt, ill-
punctuated, and with capital letters constantly misused. —
A.M.

270 BETHINK YOURSELVES!

very fond of reading what you write, and as we
are now in military action, Lev Nikolaevich, will
you please tell me whether or not it is pleasing to
God that our commanders compel us to kill. I
beg you to write me, Lev Nikolaevich, please,
whether or not truth exists now on earth. At the
church service the priest speaks of the Christ-
loving army. Is it true or not that God loves war?
Please, Lev Nikolaevich, have you any books
showing whether truth exists on earth or not? Send
me such books and I will pay what they cost.
I beg you not to neglect my request, Lev Nikolae-
vich. If there are no such books, then write to me.
I shall be very glad to receive a letter from you and
shall await it \\ith impatience.

'Now farewell. I remain alive and well and wish
you the same from the Lord God. Good health
and good success in your work.'

[Then follows the address, Port Arthur, the name
of his ship, his rank, and his Christian name,
patronymic, and family name.]

I cannot reply directly to that good, serious, and
truly enlightened man. He is in Port Arthur, with
which there is no longer any communication either
by post or by telegraph. But we still have a means
of mutual intercourse — God, in whom we both
believe and concerning whom we both know that
military 'action' displeases him. The doubt which
has arisen in the man's soul is at the same time its
own solution.

And that doubt has now arisen and lives in the
souls of thousands and thousands of men, not
Russians and Japanese only, but all those unfor-
tunate people who are forcibly compelled to do
things most repugnant to human nature.

The hypnotism by which the rulers have stupe-
fied and still try to stupefy people soon passes off

BETHINK YOURSELVES! 271

and its effect grows ever weaker and weaker;
whereas the doubt ''whether or not it is pleasing to
God that our commanders compel us to kill' grows
stronger and stronger. It can in no way be extin-
guished and is spreading more and more widely.

The doubt 'whether or not it is pleasing to God
that our commanders compel us to kill' is that
spark which Christ brought down upon earth, and
which begins to kindle.

And to know and feel this is a great joy.

[Tdsnaya Poly ana. May 8th, 1904.]

A GREAT INIQUITY

TJUSSIA is passing through an important period
JKxlestined to have tremendous results.

The nearness and inevitability of the approach-
ing revolution is as usual felt most keenly by those
classes of society which by their position are exempt
from the necessity of devoting their whole time
and strength to physical labour and who can
therefore pay attention to politics. These people —
the gentry, merchants, officials, medical men,
technicians, professors, teachers, artists, students,
and lawyers (belonging for the most part to the so-
called intelligentsia of the towns) — are now direct-
ing the movement that is taking place in Russia,
and are devoting their efforts to replacing the
existing political order by another which this or
that party considers best adapted to securing the
liberty and welfare of the Russian folk.

These people — continually suffering all sorts of
restrictions and coercions at the hands of the
government; arbitrary exile, imprisonment, pro-
hibitions of meetings, suppression of books and
newspapers, and the prohibition of strikes and
trades unions, as well as restriction of the rights of
subject nationalities, and who at the same time
are living a life quite estranged from the majority
of the agricultural Russian people — naturally re-
gard the restrictions imposed on them as the chief
evil the nation is suffering from, and liberation
from them as the thing most to be desired.

So think the Liberals and the Social Democrats,
who hope that popular representation will enable
them to utilize the power of the State to establish
a new social order in accord with their theory.
So also think the Revolutionaries, who after re-

A GREAT INIQUITY 273

placing the present government by a new one,
intend to establish laws securing the greatest
freedom and welfare for the whole people.

Yet one need only free oneself for a while from
the idea which has taken root among our intelli-
gentsia (that the work now before Russia is the
introduction of the forms of political life estab-
lished in Europe and America, and supposed to
ensure the liberty and welfare of all their citizens)
and simply consider what is morally wrong in our
life, to see clearly that the chief evil from which
the Russian people are cruelly and unceasingly
suffering (an evil of which they are keenly con-
scious and of which they continually complain) —
cannot be removed by any political reforms, just
as it has not till now been removed by political
reforms in Europe or America. That evil — the
fundamental evil from which the Russian people
suffer in common with the peoples of Europe and
America — is that the majority of the people are
deprived of the indubitable and natural right of
every man to have the use of a portion of the land
on which he was born. It is only necessary to
understand the criminality and wickedness of this
deprivation to realize that until this atrocity, con-
tinually committed by landowners, has ceased, no
political reforms will give freedom and welfare to the
people ; but that on the contrary only the emancipa-
tion of the mass of the people from the land-slavery
in which they are now held can render political re-
form a real expression of the people's will, and not
a plaything and tool in the hands of politicians.

That is the thought I wish to communicate in
this article to those who, at the present important
moment for Russia, sincerely wish to serve not
their personal aims but the true welfare of the
Russian people.

274 A GREAT INIQUITY

I

The other day I was walking on the high road
to Tula. It was the Saturday before Palm Sunday.
Peasants were driving to market in their carts with
calves, hens, horses, and cows (some of the cows
in such poor condition that they were being taken
in the carts). A wrinkled old woman was leading
a lean and wretched cow. I knew her, and asked
why she was taking the animal to market.

'She has no milk,5 said the old woman. 'I must
sell her and buy one that has. I daresay I shall
have to pay another ten rubles in addition, but
I've only got five. Where could I get it? In winter
we had to spend eighteen rubles on flour, and
we have only one breadwinner. I live with my
daughter-in-law and four grandchildren. My son
is a house-porter in town.'

'Why doesn't your son live at home?'

'There's nothing for him to do. What land
have we? Barely enough for kvas.'1

A lean and sallow peasant tramped by, his
trousers spattered with mine-clay.

'What's taking you to town?' I asked him.

'I want to buy a horse. It's time to begin
ploughing and I haven't got one. But they say
horses are dear!'

'How much do you want to give?'

'As much as I have.'

'And how much is that?'

'I've scraped together fifteen rubles.'

'What can you buy nowadays for fifteen rubles?
Barely a hide !' put in another peasant. 'Whose mine
are you at?' he added, looking at the man's trousers
stretched at the knees and smeared with red clay.

1 A non- intoxicating drink usually made from rye-malt
and rye-flour. — A. M.

A GREAT INIQUITY 275

'Komarov's — Ivan Komarov's.'

'How is it you've earned so little?'

'I worked on half-shares. He took half.'

'How much did you earn?' I asked.

'I got two rubles a week, or even less. But what 's
to be done? We hadn't enough grain to last till
Christmas. There isn't enough to buy necessaries.'

A little farther on a young peasant was taking
a sleek, well-fed horse to sell.

'A good horse!' said I.

'You might look for a better but you wouldn't
find one,' said he, taking me for a buyer. 'Good
for ploughing or driving.'

'Then why arc you selling it?'

'I can't use it. I have only two allotments of
land and can work them with one horse. I kept
two through the winter, but I'm sorry I did. The
cattle have eaten up everything, and we need
money for the rent.'

'Who is your landlord?'

'Marya Ivanovna — thanks to her for letting us
have some land, else we might just as well have
hung ourselves.'

'How much do you pay her?'

'She fleeces us of fourteen rubles. But where else
can we go? We have to hire it.'

A woman drove up with a little boy wearing
a small cap. She knew me and got down and
offered me her boy for service. The boy was just
a mite, with quick intelligent eyes. 'He looks
small, but he can do anything,' she said.

'But why do you want to hire out such a little
fellow?'

'Why sir, at least it'll be one less to feed. I have
four besides myself, and only one allotment of land.
God knows we've nothing to eat. They ask for
bread and I have nothing to give them.'

276 A GREAT INIQUITY

Everyone with whom one talks complains of
want, and all alike, from one side or other, come
back to the cause of it. They have not enough
bread, and that is so because of their lack of land.

These were casual encounters on the road; but
go through the peasant world all over Russia and
see the horrors of want and suffering obviously
caused by the fact that they are deprived of land.
Half the Russian peasantry live in such a manner
that the question for them is not how to improve
their lot, but simply how to keep themselves and
their families alive — and all because they are short
of land.

Go all through Russia and ask the working
people why their life is hard, and what they want,
and all of them with one voice will name one and
the same thing; which they all unceasingly desire
and expect, and unceasingly hope for and think
about.

And they cannot help thinking and feeling thus,
for apart from the chief thing — their insufficiency
of land whereon to maintain themselves — most of
them cannot but feel themselves to be in slavery
to the landed gentry, landowners, and merchants,
whose estates surround their small and insufficient
allotments. They cannot but think and feel this,
for they are constantly suffering fines, blows, and
humiliations, because they have taken a sack of
grass or an armful of wood (without which they
cannot live) or because a horse has strayed from
their land on to the landowner's.

Once on the high road I began talking with
a blind peasant beggar. Recognizing me by my
conversation to be a literate man who read the
papers, but not taking me for one of the gentry, he
suddenly stopped and gravely asked : 'Well, is there
any rumour?'

A GREAT INIQUITY 277

'What about?1 I asked.

'Why, about the gentry's land.*

When I said that I had heard nothing, the blind
man shook his head and did not ask me anything
more.

I recently said to one of my former pupils, a
prosperous, steady, intelligent, and literate peasant :
'Well, are they talking about the land?'

'It's true the people are talking about it,' he
replied.

'And what do you think about it yourself?'

'Well, it will probably come over to us,' said he.

Of all that is happening, this question alone is
interesting and important to the whole people.
And they believe, and cannot help believing, that
it will 'come over'.

They cannot help believing this, because it is
plain to them that an increasing population living
by agriculture cannot continue to exist when they
are allowed only a small portion of the land to
feed themselves and all the parasites who have
fastened on them and are crawling about them.

II

'What is man?' says Henry George in one of his
speeches.

'In the first place he is an animal, a land animal
who cannot live without land. All that man pro-
duces comes from land; all productive labour, in
the final analysis, consists in working up land or
materials drawn from land, into such forms as fit
them for the satisfaction of human wants and
desires. Why, man's very body is drawn from the
land. Children of the soil, we come from the land,
and to the land we must return. Take away from
man all that belongs to the land, and what have
you but a disembodied spirit? Therefore he who

278 A GREAT INIQUITY

holds the land on which and from which another
man must live, is that man's master; and the man
is his slave. The man who holds the land on which
I must live can command me to life or to death
just as absolutely as though I were his chattel.
Talk about abolishing slavery — we have not
abolished slavery — we have only abolished one
rude form of it, chattel slavery. There is a deeper
and a more insidious form, a more cursed form yet
before us to abolish, in this industrial slavery that
makes a virtual slave, while taunting him and
mocking him with the name of freedom.'1

'Did you ever think,' says Henry George in
another part of the same speech, 'of the utter
absurdity and strangeness of the fact that, all over
the civilized world, the working classes are the
poor classes? . . . Think for a moment how it would
strike a rational being who had never been on the
earth before, if such an intelligence could come
down, and you were to explain to him how we live
on earth, how houses, and food and clothing, and
all the many things we need, are all produced by
work, would he not think that the working people
would be the people who lived in the finest houses
and had most of everything that work produces?
Yet, whether you took him to London or Paris or
New York, or even to Burlington, he would find
that those called working people were the people
who lived in the poorest houses.'2

The same thing, I would add, occurs to a still
greater extent in the country. Idle people live in
luxurious palaces, in large and handsome dwellings,
while the workers live in dark and dirty hovels.

'All this is strange — just think of it. We naturally

1 The Crime of Poverty (Henry George Foundation of Great
Britain), p. 10.
* Ibid., p. is.

A GREAT INIQUITY 279

despise poverty; and it is reasonable that we
should. . . . Nature gives to labour, and to labour
alone; there must be human work before any
article of wealth can be produced ; and, in a natural
state of things, the man who toiled honestly and
well would be the rich man, and he who did not
work would be poor. We have so reversed the
order of nature that we are accustomed to think of
a working-man as a poor man. . . . The primary
cause of this is that we compel those who work to
pay others for permission to do so. You buy a coat,
a horse, a house; there you are paying the seller
for labour exerted, for something that he has pro-
duced, or that he has got from the man who did
produce it; but when you pay a man for land, what
are you paying him for? You are paying for some-
thing that no man has produced; you pay him
for something that was here before man was, or
for a value that was created, not by him indi-
vidually, but by the community of which you are
a part.'1

That is why he who has seized land and possesses
it is rich, whereas he who works on it or on its
products is poor.

'We talk about over-production. How can there
be such a thing as over-production while people
want? All these things that are said to be over-
produced are desired by many people. Why do
they not get them? They do not get them because
they have not the means to buy them; not that
they do not want them. Why have they not the
means to buy them? They earn too little. When
great masses of men have to work for an average
of $ i .40 a day, it is no wonder that great quantities
of goods cannot be sold.

'Now why is it that men have to work for such
1 Ibid., p. 13.

28o A GREAT INIQUITY

low wages? Because, if they were to demand
higher wages, there are plenty of unemployed men
ready to step into their places. It is this mass of
unemployed men who compel that fierce competi-
tion that drives wages down to the point of bare
subsistence. Why is it that there are men who
cannot get employment? Did you ever think what
a strange thing it is that men cannot find employ-
ment? Adam had no difficulty in finding employ-
ment; neither had Robinson Crusoe; the finding
of employment was the last thing that troubled
them.

'If men cannot find an employer, why can they
not employ themselves? Simply because they are
shut out from the element on which human labour
can alone be exerted. Men are compelled to com-
pete with each other for the wages of an employer,
because they have been robbed of the natural
opportunities of employing themselves; because
they cannot find a piece of God's world on which
to work without paying some other human creature
for the privilege.'1

'Men pray to the Almighty to relieve poverty.
But poverty comes not from God's laws — it is
blasphemy of the worst kind to say that; it comes
from man's injustice to his fellows. Supposing the
Almighty were to hear the prayer, how could He
carry out the request, so long as His laws are what
they are? Consider — the Almighty gives us nothing
of the things that constitute wealth; He merely
gives us the raw material which must be utilized
by man to produce wealth. Does He not give us
enough of that now? How could He relieve poverty
even if He were to give us more? Supposing, in
answer to these prayers, He were to increase the

1 The Crime of Poverty (Henry George Foundation of Great
Britain), p. 14.

A GREAT INIQUITY 281

power of the sun, or the virtues of the soil? Suppos-
ing he were to make plants more prolific, or animals
to produce after their kind more abundantly? Who
would get the benefit of it? Take a country where
land is completely monopolized, as it is in most of
the civilized countries — who would get the benefit
of it? Simply the landowners. And even if God,
in answer to prayer, were to send down out of the
heavens those things that men require, who would
get the benefit?

'In the Old Testament we are told that when the
Israelites journeyed through the desert, they were
hungered, and that God sent down out of the
heavens — manna. There was enough for all of
them, and they all took it and were relieved. But,
supposing that desert had been held as private
property, as the soil of Great Britain is held, as
the soil even of our new States is being held;
supposing that one of the Israelites had a square
mile, and another one had twenty square miles,
and another one had a hundred square miles, and
the great majority of the Israelites did not have
enough to set the soles of their feet upon, which
they could call their own — what would become of
the manna? What good would it have done to the
majority? Not a whit. Though God had sent
down manna enough for all, that manna would
have been the property of the landholders; they
would have employed some of the others, perhaps,
to gather it up in heaps for them, and would have
sold it to their hungry brethren. Consider it; this
purchase and sale of manna might have gone on
until the majority of the Israelites had given up
all they had, even to the clothes off their backs.
What then? Well, then they would not have had
anything left with which to buy manna, and the
consequence would have been that while they went

282 A GREAT INIQUITY

hungry the manna would have lain in great heaps,
and the landowners would have been complaining
of the over-production of manna. There would
have been a great harvest of manna and hungry
people, just precisely the phenomenon that we see
to-day.'1

'I do not mean to say that, even after you had
set right this fundamental injustice, there would
not be many things to do; but this I do mean to
say, that our treatment of land lies at the bottom
of all social questions. This I do mean to say, that,
do what you please, reform as you may, you never
can get rid of widespread poverty so long as the
element on which, and from which, all men must
live is made the private property of some men. It
is utterly impossible. Reform government — get
taxes down to the minimum — build railroads;
institute co-operative stores; divide profits, if you
choose, between employers and employed — and
what will be the result? The result will be that
land will increase in value — that will be the result —
that and nothing else. Experience shows this. Do
not all improvements simply increase the value of
land — the price that some must pay others for the
privilege of living?'2

Let me add that we constantly see the same thing
in Russia. All the landowners complain that their
estates are unprofitable and are run at a loss, but
the price of land is continually rising. It cannot
but rise, for the population is increasing and land
is a matter of life and death to it.

And so the people give all they can, not only
their labour but even their lives, for the land which
is being withheld from them.

1 The Crime of Poverty (Henry George Foundation of Great
Britain), p. 15.
* Ibid., p. 14.

A GREAT INIQUITY 283

III

There used to be cannibalism, there used to be
human sacrifices, there used to be religious prosti-
tution and the killing of weakly children and girls ;
there used to be blood vengeance and the slaughter
of whole populations, judicial tortures, quarterings,
burnings at the stake, the lash, and — a thing that
has disappeared within our own memory — the
spitzruten1 and slavery.

But if we have outlived those dreadful customs
and institutions, that does not prove the non-
existence among us of institutions and customs
which have become as abhorrent to enlightened
reason and conscience as those which in their day
were abolished and are now for us only a dreadful
memory. The path of mankind towards perfection
is endless, and at every moment of history there
are superstitions, deceptions, and pernicious and
evil institutions that men have already outlived
and that belong to the past, as well as others that
present themselves to us as in the mists of a distant
future, and some that we have with us now and
the supersession of \\hich forms the problem of our
life. Capital punishment and punishment in
general is such a case in our day, so also is prostitu-
tion, flesh-eating, and the business of militarism
and war, and so — nearest and most urgent case of
all — is private property in land.

But as people have never freed themselves sud-
denly from customary injustices nor done so im-
mediately their harmfulness was recognized by the
more sensitive people, but have freed themselves
in jerks, with stoppages and reactions and then
again by fresh leaps towards freedom, comparable

1 Spitsyuten — rods used on soldiers who had to run the
gauntlet, from which they sometimes died. — A. M.

284 A GREAT INIQJJITY

to the pangs of birth — as was the case with the
recent abolition of serfdom — so it is now with the
abolition of private property in land.

Prophets and sages of old pointed out the evil
and injustice of private property in land thousands
of years ago, and the evil of it has been pointed out
more and more frequently ever since by the pro-
gressive thinkers of Europe. It was specially clearly
expressed by those active in the French revolution.
Subsequently, owing to the increase of population
and the seizure by the rich of a great deal of what
had been free land, and also owing to the spread
of education and the decreasing harshness of
manners, that injustice has become so obvious that
progressive people, and even very ordinary people,
cannot help seeing and feeling it. But men,
especially those who profit by landed property —
both the owners themselves and others whose
interests are bound up with that institution — are
so accustomed to this order of things and have
profited by it so long, that they often do not see its
injustice and use every possible means to conceal
the truth from themselves and from others. The
truth is continually appearing more and more
clearly, but they try to distort it, suppress it, or
extinguish it, and if they cannot succeed in this,
then they try to hush it up.

Very striking in this respect is the fate of the
activity of the remarkable man who appeared
towards the end of the last century — Henry George
— who devoted his immense mental powers to
elucidating the injustice and cruelty of the institu-
tion of landed property and to indicating means of
rectifying that injustice under the forms of govern-
ment now existing in all countries. He did this by
his books, articles, and speeches, with such extra-
ordinary force and lucidity that no unprejudiced

A GREAT INIQUITY 285

person reading his works could fail to agree with
his arguments and to see that no reforms can
render the condition of the people satisfactory until
this fundamental injustice has been abolished, and
that the means he proposes for its abolition are
reasonable, just, and practicable.

But what has happened? Notwithstanding the
fact that when Henry George's works first appeared
in English they spread rapidly throughout the
Anglo-Saxon world and their high quality could
not fail to be appreciated, so that it seemed as if
the truth must prevail and find its way to accom-
plishment— it very soon appeared that in England
(and even in Ireland where the crying injustice
of private property in land was very clearly mani-
fest) the majority of the most influential and
educated people— despite the convincing force of
the argument and the practicability of the methods
proposed — were opposed to his teaching. Radicals
like Parnell, who had at first sympathized with
Henry George's projects, soon drew back from it,
regarding political reform as more important. In
England all the aristocrats were opposed to it, and
among others the famous Toynbee, Gladstone,
and Herbert Spencer. This latter, after having at
first in his Statics very definitely expounded the
injustice of landed property, afterwards withdrew
that opinion and bought up the first edition of his
book in order to eliminate all that he had said
about it.

At Oxford when Henry George was lecturing,
the students organized a hostile demonstration, and
the Roman Catholic party regarded his teaching
as simply sinful, immoral, dangerous, and contrary
to Christ's teaching. The orthodox science of politi-
cal economy rose up against Henry George's teach-
ing in the same way. Learned professors from the

286 A GREAT INIQUITY

height of their superiority refuted it without under-
standing it, chiefly because it did not recognize
the fundamental principles of their pseudo-
science. The Socialists were also inimical — con-
sidering the most important problem of the period
to be not the land question, but the complete
abolition of private property. The chief method
of opposing Henry George was, however, the
method always employed against irrefutable and
self-evident truths. This, which is still being
applied to Henry George's teaching, was that of
ignoring it. This method of hushing up was prac-
tised so successfully that Labouchere, a British
Member of Parliament, could say publicly and
without contradiction that he 'was not such a
visionary as Henry George, and did not propose
to take the land from the landlords in order
afterwards to rent it out again, but that he only
demanded the imposition of a tax on the value
of the land'. That is, while attributing to Henry
George what he could not possibly have said,
Labouchere corrected that imaginary fantasy by
putting forward Henry George's actual proposal.1

So that thanks to the collective efforts of all those
interested in defending the institution of landed
property, the teaching of Henry George (irrefut-
ably convincing in its simplicity and lucidity)
remains almost unknown, and as years go by
attracts ever less and less attention.

Here and there in Scotland, Portugal, or New
Zealand, he is remembered, and among hundreds
of scientists one is found who knows and defends
his teaching. But in England and the United
States the number of his adherents dwindles more
and more; in France his teaching is almost

1 See The Life of Henry George by his son (Doubleday Doran
& Co., New York, 1900), p. 516.

A GREAT INIQUITY 287

unknown ; in Germany it is preached in a very small
circle; and everywhere it is stifled by the noisy
teaching of Socialism. So that among the majority
of supposedly educated people it is known only by
name.

IV

They do not argue with Henry George's teach-
ing, they simply do not know it. (There is no
other way of dealing with it, for a man who be-
comes acquainted with it cannot help agreeing
with it.)

If it is sometimes referred to, people either
attribute to it what it does not say or reassert what
Henry George has refuted, or else contradict him
simply because he does not conform to the pedan-
tic, arbitrary, and superficial principles of so-called
political economy which they recognize as irre-
futable truths.

But for all that, the truth that land cannot be
private property has so elucidated itself by the
actual experience of contemporary life, that there
is only one way of continuing to maintain an order
of things in which the rights of private property
in land are recognized — namely, not to think about
it, to ignore the truth, and to occupy oneself with
other absorbing affairs. And that is what is being
done by the men of our contemporary Christian
world.

The political workers of Europe and America
occupy themselves with all sorts of things for the
welfare of their peoples : tariffs, colonies, income-tax,
military and naval budgets, socialistic assemblies,
unions and syndicates, the election of presidents,
diplomatic relations — anything except the one thing
without which there cannot be any true improve-
ment in the people's condition — the re-establishment

288 A GREAT INIQUITY

of the infringed right of all men to use the land.
And though the political workers of the Chris-
tian world feel in their souls, and cannot but feel,
that all they are doing both in the industrial
strife and the military strife into which they put
all their energies, can result in nothing but the
general exhaustion of the strength of the nations;
still without looking ahead they yield to the
demands of the moment and continue to whirl
around as if with a sole desire to forget them-
selves in an enchanted circle from which there
is no issue.

Strange as is this temporary blindness of the
political workers of Europe and the United States,
it can be explained by the fact that in both con-
tinents the people have already gone so far along a
wrong road that the majority of them are already
torn from the land (or in the United States have
never lived on the land) and get their living in
factories or as hired agricultural labourers, and
desire and demand only one thing — an improve-
ment of their position as hired labourers. It is
therefore understandable that to the politicians of
Europe and America, attending to the demands of
the majority, it may seem that the chief means
of improving the position of the people consists in
tariffs, trusts, and colonies. But to Russian people
— in Russia where the agricultural population forms
eighty per cent, of the whole nation and where all
these people ask only one thing, that opportunity
be given them to remain on the land — it should be
clear that something else is needed.

The people of Europe and the United States are
in the position of a man who has already gone so
far along a road which at first seemed to him the
right one, that he is afraid to recognize his mistake
although the farther he goes the farther he is

A GREAT INIQUITY 289

removed from his goal. But Russia is still standing
at the cross-roads, and can still, as the wise saying
has it, 'ask her way while still on the road'.

And what are those Russians doing who wish,
or at least say they wish, to arrange a good life
for the people?

In everything they imitate what is done in
Europe and America.

To arrange a good life for the people they are
concerned about freedom of the Press, religious
toleration, freedom for trade unions, tariffs, con-
ditional punishments, the separation of the Church
from the State, Go-operative Associations, a future
socialization of the implements of labour, and above
all representative government — that same repre-
sentative government which has long existed in the
European and American countries, but whose
existence has never conduced in the least, nor is
now conducing, either to the solution of that land
question which alone solves all difficulties, or even
to its presentation. If Russian politicians do speak
about land abuses, which for some reason they call
'the agrarian question' (possibly imagining that
this stupid phraseology will conceal the substance
of the matter) they do not suggest that private
property in land is an evil that should be abolished,
but merely suggest various patchings and pallia-
tives to plaster up, hide, and avoid the recognition
of this essential, ancient, cruel, obvious, and crying
injustice — which awaits its turn to be abolished
not only in Russia but in the whole world.

In Russia, where the hundred-million mass of
the people continually suffers from the holding up
of land by private owners and unceasingly cries
about it, the conduct of those who pretend to
search everywhere (except where it lies) for means
of improving the condition of the people, reminds

ago A GREAT INIQUITY

me exactly of what takes place on the stage when
the spectators can all see perfectly well the man
who has hidden himself, and the actors can also
see him but pretend not to, purposely diverting
each other's attention and looking at everything
except what it is important for them to see.

People have driven into an enclosure a herd of
cows on the milk products of which they live. The
cows have eaten up and trampled down the forage
in the enclosure, they are famished and have
chewed each other's tails, they are lowing and
struggling to get out of that enclosure into the
pasture lands beyond. But the people who live on
the milk of these cows have surrounded the en-
closure with fields of mint, dye-yielding plants, and
tobacco plantations. They have cultivated flowers,
and laid out a race-course, a park, and lawn-
tennis courts; and they will not let the cows out
lest they should spoil these things. But the cows
bellow and grow thin, and people begin to fear
that they will have no milk. So they devise various
means of improving the condition of the cows.
They arrange to put awnings over them, they have
them rubbed down with wet brushes, they gild
their horns, and alter the hours of milking. They
concern themselves with the supervision and doctor-
ing of the old and sick cows; they invent new and
improved methods of milking and expect that some
kind of extraordinarily nutritious grass which they
have planted in the enclosure will grow up. They
argue about these and many other matters, but
do not (and cannot without disturbing all the
surroundings of the enclosure) do the one simple
thing necessary for the cows as well as for them-
selves— that is, take down the fence and set the

A GREAT INIQUITY 291

cows free to enjoy naturally the abundant* pastures
that surround them.

People who act in this way behave unreasonably,
but there is an explanation of their conduct : they
are sorry to sacrifice the things with which they
have surrounded the enclosure. But what can be
said of those who have planted nothing round
their enclosure but who (imitating those who keep
their cows enclosed for the sake of what they have
planted around the enclosure) also keep their cows
enclosed, and affirm that they do it for the cows'
welfare?

But that is just what Russians — whether for or
against the government — do, who arrange all sorts
of European institutions for the Russian people
who are suffering constantly from want of land,
and who forget and deny the chief thing, the one
thing the Russian people require — the freeing of
the land from private ownership and the establish-
ment of equal rights to the land for everybody.

It is understandable that European parasites
who do not draw their subsistence either directly
or indirectly from the labour of their own English,
French, or German working men, but whose bread
is produced by colonial workers in exchange for
factory products, and who do not see the labour
and sufferings of the workers who feed and support
them — may devise a future Socialistic organization
for which they are supposedly preparing mankind,
and with untroubled conscience amuse themselves
meanwhile by electoral campaigns, party struggles,
parliamentary debates, the establishment and over-
throw of ministries, and various other pastimes
which they call science and art.

The real people who feed these European para-
sites are the labourers they do not see in India,
Africa, Australia, and to some extent Russia. But

292 A GREAT INIQUITY

it is not so for us Russians. We have no colonies
where slaves we never see provide food for us in
exchange for our manufactures. Our bread-
winners, hungry and suffering, are always before
our eyes, and we cannot transfer the burden of
our unjust life to distant colonies, that invisible
slaves should feed us.

Our sins are always before us. ...

And here — instead of entering into the needs of
those who support us, listening to their cry and
endeavouring to answer it — under pretence of
serving them, we prepare for the future a Socialist
organization in the European manner, occupying
ourselves meanwhile with what amuses and dis-
tracts us and professes to be directed to the benefit
of the people from whom we are squeezing the last
ounce of strength that they may support us, their
parasites.

For the welfare of the people we endeavour to
abolish the censorship of books, to get rid of
arbitrary banishment, to establish primary and
agricultural schools everywhere, to increase the
number of hospitals, to abolish passports, to cancel
arrears of taxes, to establish a strict inspection of
factories and compensation for injured workers, to
survey the land, to provide assistance through the
Peasant Bank for the purchasing of land by the
peasants, and much else.

Once realize the unceasing sufferings of millions
of people: the dying of old men, women, and
children from want, as well as the mortality caused
by overwork and insufficient food — once realize
the enslavement, the humiliations, all the useless
expenditure of strength, the perversion, and the
horrors of the needless sufferings of the Russian
rural population which arise from lack of land —
and it becomes quite clear that all such measures

A GREAT INIQUITY 293

as the abolition of the censorship, of arbitrary
banishment, and so on, which are sought for by the
pseudo-defenders of the people would (even were
they realized) amount to an insignificant drop in
the sea of want from which the people are suffering.

But the men concerned with the welfare of the
people, while devising insignificant changes that
are unimportant both in quality and quantity, not
only leave the hundred-million workers in the un-
ceasing slavery caused by the seizure of the land,
but many of these men — and the most advanced
of them — would like the sufferings of the people to
be still more intensified, that they may be driven
to the necessity (after leaving on their way millions
of victims who will perish of want and depravity)
of exchanging the happy agricultural life to which
they are accustomed and to which they are at-
tached, for the improved factory life they have
devised for them.

The Russian people, owing to their agricultural
environment, their love of this form of life, and
their Christian trend of character, and also be-
cause, almost alone among European nations, they
continue to be an agricultural people and wish to
remain so — are as it were providentially placed by
historic conditions in the forefront of the truly
progressive movement of mankind in regard to
what is called the labour question.

Yet this Russian people is invited by its fancied
representatives and leaders to follow in the wake
of the decadent and entangled European and
American nations, and to pervert itself and re-
nounce its calling as quickly as possible, in order
to become like the Europeans in general.

Astonishing as is the poverty of thought of those
men who do not think with their own minds but
slavishly repeat what is said by their European

294 A GREAT INIQUITY

models, the hardness of their hearts and their

cruelty is still more astonishing.

VI

'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for
ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which outwardly
appear beautiful, but inwardly are full of dead men's
bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly
appear righteous unto men, but inwardly ye are full
of hypocrisy and iniquity.' MATT, xxiii. 27-8.

There was a time when in the name of God and
of true faith in Him, men were destroyed, tortured,
executed, and slaughtered by tens and hundreds
of thousands. And now, from the height of our
superiority, we look down on the men who did
those things.

But we are wrong. There are just such people
among us; the difference is only that the men 01
old did these things in the name of God and His
true service, while those who do similar evil among
us now, do it in the name of 'the people' and for
their true service. And as among those men of old
there were some who were insanely and confidently
convinced that they knew the truth, and others
who were hypocrites making careers for themselves
under pretence of serving God, and the masses
who unreasoningly followed the most dexterous
and bold — so now those who do evil in the name
of service of the people are composed of men
insanely and confidently convinced that they alone
know what is right, of hypocrites, and of the masses.
Much evil was done in their time by the self-
proclaimed servants of God, thanks to the teaching
they called theology; but if the servants of the
people have done less evil by a teaching they call
scientific, that is only because they have not yet
had time, though their conscience is already

A GREAT INIQUITY 295

burdened by rivers of blood and a great dividing
and embittering of the people.

The features of both these activities are alike.

First there is the dissolute and bad life of the
majority of these servants both of God and of the
people. (Their dignity as the chief servants of God,
or of the people, frees them in their opinion from
any necessity to restrain their conduct.)

The second feature is the utter lack of interest,
attention, or love for that which they desire to
serve. God has been and is merely a banner for
those servants of His. In reality they did not love
Him or seek communion with Him, and neither
knew Him nor wished to know Him. So also with
many of the servants of the people. 'The people'
were and are only a banner, and far from loving
them or seeking intercourse with them they did not
know them, but in the depths of their souls regarded
them with contempt, aversion, and fear.

The third feature is that while they are pre-
occupied, the former with the service of one and
the same God, the latter with the service of one
and the same people, they not only disagree among
themselves as to the means of their service, but
regard the activity of all who do not agree with
them as false and pernicious, and call for its
forcible suppression. From this, in the former case,
came burnings at the stake, inquisitions, and
massacres; and in the latter, executions, imprison-
ments, revolutions, and assassinations.

And finally, the chief and most characteristic
feature of both is their complete indifference to,
and absolute ignorance of, what is demanded by
the One they serve, and of what is proclaimed and
announced by Him. God, whom they serve and
have served so zealously, has directly and clearly
expressed in what they recognize as a Divine

296 A GREAT INIQUITY

revelation, that He is to be served only by men
loving their neighbours and doing to others as they
wish them to do to them. But they have not
recognized this as the means of serving God. They
demand something quite different, which they
themselves have invented and announced as the
demands of God. The servants of the people do
just the same. They do not at all recognize what
the people express, desire, and clearly ask for.
They choose to serve them by what the people
not only do not ask of them but have not the least
conception of. They serve them by means they
have invented, and not by the one thing for which
the people never cease to look and for which they
unceasingly ask.

VII

Of all the essential changes in the forms of social
life there is one that is ripest the world over, and
without which no single step forward can be
accomplished in the life of man. The necessity of
this alteration is obvious to every man who is free
from preconceived theories; and it is the concern
not of Russia alone, but of the whole world. All
the sufferings of mankind in our time are con-
nected with it. We in Russia are fortunate in that
the great majority of our people, living by agri-
cultural labour, do not recognize the right o*
private property in land, but desire and demand
the abolition of that ancient abuse, and express
their desire unceasingly.

But no one sees this or wants to see it.

What is the cause of this perversity?

Why do good, kind, intelligent men, of whom
many can be found among the liberals, the
socialists, the revolutionaries, and even among
government officials — why do these men, who

A GREAT INIQUITY 297

desire the people's welfare, not see the one thing
they are in need of, for which they unceasingly
strive, and without which they constantly suffer?
Why are they concerned instead with most various
things, the realization of which cannot contribute
to the people's welfare without the realization of
that which the people desire?

The whole activity of these servants of the
people — both governmental and anti-governmental
— resembles that of a man who, wishing to help
a horse that has stuck in a bog, sits in the cart
and shifts the load from place to place, imagining
he is helping matters thereby.

Why is this?

The answer is the same as to all inquiries why
the people of our time, who might live well and
happily, are living badly and miserably.

It is because these men — both governmental. and
anti-governmental — who are organizing the wel-
fare of the people, lack religion. Without religion
man cannot live a reasonable life himself; still less
can he know what is good and what is bad, what
is necessary and what is unnecessary, for others.
That alone is why the men of our time in general,
and the Russian intelligentsia in particular (who are
completely bereft of religious consciousness and
proudly announce that fact), so perversely mis-
understand the life and demands of the people they
wish to serve — claiming for them many different
things, but not the one thing they need.

Without religion it is impossible really to love
men, and without love it is impossible to know
what they need, and what is more and what less
needed. Only those who are not religious and
therefore do not truly love, can devise trifling and
unimportant improvements in the condition of the
people without seeing the chief evil from which

298 A GREAT INIQUITY

the people suffer, and that is to some extent caused
by those who wish to help them. Only such people
can preach more or less cleverly devised abstract
theories concerning the people's future happiness,
and not see their present sufferings which call for
an immediate alleviation that is quite possible. It
is as if someone who has deprived a hungry man
of food should give him advice (and that of a
very doubtful character) as to how to get food in
future — without deeming it necessary to share with
him the food he has taken from him.

Fortunately the great and beneficent movements
of humanity are accomplished not by parasites
feeding on the people's marrow — whatever they
may call themselves: government officials, revolu-
tionaries, or liberals — but by religious men, that is
by serious, simple, industrious people, who live
not for their own profit, vanity, or ambition, and
not to attain external results, but for the fulfilment
before God of their human vocation.

Such men, and only such, move mankind for-
ward by their quiet but resolute activity. They do
not try to distinguish themselves in the eyes of
others by devising this or that improvement in
the condition of the people (such improvements
can be innumerable and are all insignificant if the
chief thing is left undone) but they try to live in
accord with the law of God and their conscience,
and in that endeavour naturally come across the
most obvious infringement of God's law and seek
means of deliverance both for themselves and
others.

A few days ago an acquaintance of mine, a
doctor, was waiting for a train in the third-class
waiting-room of a large railway station and was
reading a paper, when a peasant sitting by him
asked about the news. There was an article in that

A GREAT INIQUITY 299

paper about the 'agrarian* conference. The doctor
translated the ridiculous word 'agrarian1 into
Russian, and when the peasant understood that
the matter concerned the land, he asked him to
read the article. The doctor began to read and
other peasants came up. A group collected, some
pressed on the backs of others and some sat on the
floor, but the faces of all wore a look of solemn con-
centration. When the reading was over, an old man
at the back sighed deeply and crossed himself. He
certainly had not understood anything of the con-
fused jargon in which the article was written (which
even men who could themselves talk that jargon
could not readily understand). He understood
nothing of what was written in that article, but he
did understand that the matter concerned the great
and longstanding sin from which his ancestors had
suffered and from which he himself still suffered,
and he understood that those who were committing
this sin were beginning to be conscious of it.
Having understood this he mentally turned to God,
and crossed himself. And in that movement of his
hand there was more meaning and content than
in all the prattle that now fills the columns of our
papers. He understood, as all the people under-
stood, that the seizure of the land by those who do
not work on it is a great sin, from which his
ancestors suffered and perished physically and he
himself and his neighbours continue to suffer
physically, while those who committed this sin in
the past, and those who now commit it, suffer
spiritually all the time — and that this sin like
every sin (like the sin of serfdom within his own
memory) must inevitably come to an end. He
knew and felt this, and therefore could not but
turn to God at the thought of an approaching
solution.

300 A GREAT INIQUITY

VIII

'Great social reforms,' says Mazzini, 'always have
and always will result only from great religious
movements.5

Such a religious movement now awaits the
Russian people — the whole Russian people, both
the workers deprived of land and even more the
landowners (large, medium, and small) and all the
hundreds of thousands of men who though not
actually possessed of land, occupy advantageous
positions thanks to the compulsory labour of those
who are deprived of it.

The religious movement now due among the
Russian people consists in cancelling the great sin
that has for so long tormented and divided people
not only in Russia but in the whole world.

That sin cannot be undone by political reforms
or socialist systems planned for the future, or by
a revolution now. Still less can it be undone by
philanthropic contributions, or government or-
ganizations for the purchase and distribution of
land among the peasants.

Such palliative measures only divert attention
from the essence of the problem and thus hinder
its solution. No artificial sacrifices are necessary,
nor concern about the people — what is needed is
simply that all who are committing this sin or
taking part in it should be conscious of it, and
desire to be free from it.

It is only necessary that the undeniable truth
which the best of the people know and have always
known — that the land cannot be anyone's exclusive
property, and that to refuse access to it to those
who are in need of it is a sin — should be recognized
by all men; that people should become ashamed of

A GREAT INIQUITY 301

withholding the land from those who need it for
their subsistence; and that it should be felt to be
shameful to participate in any way in withholding
the land from those who need it — that it should be
felt to be shameful to possess land, and shameful
to profit by the labour of men who are forced to
work merely because they are refused their legiti-
mate right to the land.

What happened in regard to serfdom (when the
landholding nobility and gentry became ashamed
of it, when the government became ashamed to
maintain those unjust and cruel laws, and when
it became evident to the peasants themselves that
a wrong for which there was no justification was
being done them) should come about in regard to
property in land. And this is necessary not for
any one class, however numerous, but for all
classes, and not merely for all classes and all men
of any one country, but for all mankind.

IX

'Social reform is not to be secured by noise and
shouting, by complaints and denunciation, by the
formation of parties or the making of revolutions,'
wrote Henry George, 'but by the awakening of
thought and the progress of ideas. Until there be
correct thought there cannot be right action, and
when there is correct thought right action will
follow. . . .

'The great work of the present for every man and
every organization of men who would improve
social conditions is the work of education, the
propagation of ideas. It is only as it aids this that
anything else can avail. And in this work every-
one who can think may aid, first by forming clear
ideas himself and then by endeavouring to arouse

302 A GREAT INIQUITY

the thought of those with whom he comes in

contact.'1

That is quite right, but to serve that great cause
there must be something else besides thought — a
religious feeling, that feeling in consequence of
which the serf-owners of the last century acknow-
ledged that they were in the wrong, and sought
means — in spite of personal losses and even ruin — to
free themselves from the guilt that oppressed them.

If the great work of freeing the land is to be
accomplished, that same feeling must arise among
people of the possessing classes, and must arise to
such an extent that people will be ready to sacrifice
everything simply to free themselves from the sin
in which they have lived and are living.

To talk in various assemblies and committees
about improving the condition of the people while
possessing hundreds, thousands, and tens of
thousands of acres, trading in land, and benefiting
in this or that way from landed property, and living
luxuriously thanks to the oppression of the people
that arises from that evident and cruel injustice —
without being willing to sacrifice one's own ex-
ceptional advantages obtained from that same
injustice — is not only not a good thing, it is both
harmful and horrid, and is condemned by common
sense, honesty, and Christianity.

It is not necessary to devise cunning means of
improving the position of men who are deprived
of their legitimate right to the land, but that those
who deprive them of it should understand the sin
they commit, and cease to participate in it what-
ever this may cost. Only such moral activity of
every man can and will contribute to the solution
of the question now confronting humanity.

1 Social Problems (Henry George Foundation of Great
Britain), p. 209.

A GREAT INIQUITY 303

The emancipation of the serfs in Russia was
accomplished not by Alexander II, but by those
men who understood the sin of serfdom and tried
to liberate themselves from it regardless of their
personal advantage. It was effected chiefly by
Novikov, Radishchev, and the Decembrists1 —
those men who (without causing others to suffer)
were ready to suffer themselves, and who did suffer
for t^e sake of loyalty to what they felt to be the
truth.

The same ought to occur in relation to the
emancipation of the land. And I believe there are
men living who will accomplish that great work
which now faces not only the Russian people but
the whole world.

The land question in our time has reached such
a stage of ripeness as legalized serfdom had reached
fifty years ago. Exactly the same thing is being
repeated. As people then sought means of remedy-
ing the general uneasiness and dissatisfaction that
society felt, and all sorts of external, governmental
means were applied, but nothing helped or could
help while the ripening question of personal
slavery remained unsolved — so now no external
measures will help, or can help, until the ripe
question of landed property is settled.

Just as measures are now proposed for adding
slices to the peasants' land, and for the Peasant
Bank to aid tnem in the purchase of land, and so
on, so palliative measures were then proposed and
enacted — the so-called 'inventories', rules restrict-
ing work for the proprietor to three days a week,
and much else. Just as now the owners of land talk
about the injustice of terminating the wrongful

1 Russian radicals of the late eighteenth and early nine-
teenth century, who suffered exile and other penalties for their
reformist efforts.— A. M.

3o4 A GREAT INIQUITY

ownership of land, so they then talked of the
wrongfulness of depriving the owners of their serfs.
Just as the Church then justified serfdom, so now
science (which has taken the place of the Church)
justifies property in land. As then the serf-owners,
more or less realizing their sin, endeavoured to
mitigate it in various ways without freeing the
slaves, and allowed serfs to pay ransom to free
themselves from compulsory work for their masters,
or lessened the labour demanded of them, so now
the more sensitive landowners, feeling their guilt,
try to redeem it by renting their land to the
peasantry on easier terms, by selling it through the
Land Banks, and organizing for the people schools,
ridiculous amusement houses, magic lanterns, and
theatres.

And the indifferent attitude of the government
is also similar. But as then the question was solved
not by those who devised ingenious methods of
relieving and improving the condition of the serfs,
but by those who — acknowledging the urgent
necessity of a solution — did not postpone it to the
future, did not anticipate special difficulties, but
tried to end the evil at once, not admitting the
idea that there could be circumstances in which
an acknowledged wrong could continue, and who
took the course which appeared best under the exist-
ing conditions — so it is now with the land question.

That question will be solved not by men who
try to mitigate the evil, or devise alleviations for the
people, or postpone the task to the future, but by
those who understand that however much a wrong
may be mitigated, it remains a wrong — that it is
senseless to devise alleviations for a man whom
we are torturing, and that one cannot delay when
people are suffering, but must at once adopt the
best means of ending that suffering.

A GREAT INIQUITY 305

This is the more easily accomplished in that the
method of solving the land question has been
worked out by Henry George so thoroughly that
even under the existing State organization and
compulsory taxation it is impossible to reach any
more practical, just, and peaceful decision.

'To beat down and cover up the truth that I
have tried to-night to make clear to you,' said
Henry George, 'selfishness will call on ignorance.
But it has in it the germinative force of truth, and
the times are ripe for it. ...

'The ground is ploughed; the seed is set; the
good tree will grow. So little now; only the eye
of faith can see it.'1

And I think Henry George is right that the
removal of the sin of property in land is near, that
the movement evoked by him was the last birth-
throe, and that the birth itself is imminent — the
liberation of men from sufferings they have borne
so long. I also think (and I should like to contri-
bute to this in however small a degree) that the
removal of this great and world-wide sin — the
cessation of which will be an era in the history
of mankind — awaits our Russian Slavonic people
predestined by its spiritual and economic character
for this great and world-wide task. I think that
the Russian people should not be proletarianized
in imitation of the peoples of Europe and America,
but should on the contrary solve the land question
at home by the abolition of private ownership,
and should show other people the path to a reason-
able, free, and happy life (outside industrial,
factory, and capitalistic violence and slavery) — in
which its great and historic vocation lies.

I should like to think that we Russian parasites,
reared by and having received leisure for mental
1 Life of Henry George (by his son) p. 296.

306 A GREAT INIQUITY

work through the people's labour, shall under-
stand our sin and (independently of personal
advantage) try to undo it for the sake of the truth
that condemns us.

[June 1905.}

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

Ar article by Ernest Howard Crosby1 on Shake-
speare's attitude towards the people has sug-
gested to me the idea of expressing the opinion
I formed long ago about Shakespeare's works, an
opinion quite contrary to that established through-
out the European world. Recalling the struggle
with doubts, the pretences, and the efforts to attune
myself to Shakespeare that I went through owing
to my complete disagreement with the general
adulation, and supposing that many people have
experienced and are experiencing the same per-
plexity, I think it may be of some use definitely and
frankly to express this disagreement of mine with
the opinion held by the majority, especially as the
conclusions I came to on examining the causes of
my disagreement are it seems to me not devoid of
interest and significance.

My disagreement with the established opinion
about Shakespeare is not the result of a casual
mood or of a light-hearted attitude towards the
subject, but it is the result of repeated and strenuous
efforts extending over many years to harmonize
my views with the opinions about Shakespeare
accepted throughout the whole educated Christian
world.

1 E. H. Crosby was for some time a member of the New
York State Legislature; subsequently he went to Egypt as a
judge in the Mixed Tribunals. While there he began reading
the works of Tolst6y, which influenced him strongly. He
visited Tolstdy, and afterwards co-operated with him in
various ways. In an essay on *Shakespeare and the Working
Glasses' he drew attention to the anti-democratic tendency of
that poet's plays, and Tolst6y began his own essay intending
it as a preface to Crosby's. — A. M.

308 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

I remember the astonishment I felt when I first
read Shakespeare. I had expected to receive a great
aesthetic pleasure, but on reading one after another
the works regarded as his best, King Lear, Romeo and
Juliet, Hamlet, and Macbeth, not only did I not
experience pleasure but I felt an insuperable repul-
sion and tedium, and a doubt as to whether I
lacked sense — since I considered as insignificant or
even simply bad, works which are regarded as the
summit of perfection by the whole educated world
— or whether the importance attributed to Shake-
speare's works by that educated world lacks sense.
My perplexity was increased by the fact that I have
always keenly felt the beauties of poetry in all its
forms: why then did Shakespeare's works, recog-
nized by the whole world as works of artistic genius,
not only fail to please me but even seem detestable?
For a long time I distrusted my judgement, and
to check my conclusions I have repeatedly, during
the past fifty years, set to work to read Shakespeare
in all possible forms — in Russian, in English, and
in German in Schlegel's translation, as I was ad-
vised to. I read the tragedies, comedies, and his-
torical plays several times over, and I invariably
experienced the same feelings — repulsion, weariness,
and bewilderment. Now, before writing this article,
as an old man of seventy-five,1 wishing once more
to check my conclusions, I have again read the
whole of Shakespeare, including the historical
plays, the Henrys, Troilus and Cressida, The Tempest,
and Cymbeline, &c., and have experienced the same
feeling still more strongly, no longer with perplexity
but with a firm and unshakable conviction that
the undisputed fame Shakespeare enjoys as a great

1 Tolstdy was born in 1828. This essay appeared in 1906,
so that he began his re-reading of Shakespeare three years
before this article was published. — A. M.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 309

genius — which makes writers of our time imitate
him, and readers and spectators, distorting their
aesthetic and ethical sense, seek non-existent
qualities in him — is a great evil, as every false-
hood is.

Although I know that the majority of people
have such faith in Shakespeare's greatness that on
reading this opinion of mine they will not even
admit the possibility of its being correct and will
not pay any attention to it, I shall nevertheless try
as best I can to show why I think Shakespeare
cannot be admitted to be either a writer of great
genius or even an average one.

For this purpose I will take one of the most
admired of Shakespeare's dramas — Kin& Ltar> in
enthusiastic praise of which most of the critics
agree.

'The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated
among the dramas of Shakespeare,5 says Dr. John-
son. 'There is perhaps no play which keeps the
attention so strongly fixed, which so much agitates
our passions and interests our curiosity.'

'We wish that we could pass this play over and
say nothing about it,' says Hazlitt. 'All that we
can say must fall far short of the subject, or even of
what we ourselves conceive of it. To attempt to
give a description of the play itself or of its effect
upon the mind is mere impertinence; yet we must
say something. It is then the best of Shakespeare's
plays, for it is the one in which he was most in
earnest.'

'If the originality of invention did not so much
stamp almost every play of Shakespeare that
to name one as the most original seems a dis-
paragement to others,' says Hallam, cwe might say
that this great prerogative of genius was exercised
above all in Lear. It diverges more from the model

3io SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

of regular tragedy than Macbeth or Othello, or even
more than Hamlet, but the fable is better con-
structed than in the last of these and it displays
full as much of the almost superhuman inspiration
of the poet as the other two.'

'King Lear may be recognized as the perfect
model of the dramatic art of the whole world,'
says Shelley.

'I am not minded to say much of Shakespeare's
Arthur;' says Swinburne. 'There are one or two
figures in the world of his work of which there are
no words that would be fit or good to say. Another
of these is Cordelia. The place they have in our
lives and thoughts is not one for talk. The niche
set apart for them to inhabit in our secret hearts is
not penetrable by the lights and noises of common
day. There are chapels in the cathedral of man's
highest art, as in that of his inmost life, not made
to be set open to the eyes and feet of the world.
Love and Death and Memory keep charge for us
in silence of some beloved names. It is the crown-
ing glory of genius, the final miracle and trans-
cendant gift of poetry that it can add to the number
of these and engrave on the very heart of our
remembrance fresh names and memories of its own
creation.'

'Lear, c'est 1'occasion de Cordelia,' says Victor
Hugo. 'La maternite de la fille sur le pere; sujet
profonde; la maternite venerable entre toutes, si
admirablement traduite par la tegende de cette
romaine, nourrice, au fond d'un cachot, de son
pere vieillard. La jeune mamelle pres de la barbe
blanche, il n'est point de spectacle plus sacre. Cette
mamelle filiale c'est Cordelia.

'Une fois cette figurt reve*e et trouve*e Shake-
speare a cre*6 son drame. . . . Shakespeare, portant
Cordelia dans sa pens^e, a cre"c* cette trag^die commo

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 311

un dieu, qui ayant une aurore a placer, fcrait tout
expres un monde pour 1'y mettre.'1

'In Lear Shakespeare's vision sounded the abyss
of horror to its very depths, and his spirit showed
neither fear, nor giddiness, nor faintness at the
sight,' says Brandes. 'On the threshold of this work
a feeling of awe comes over one as on the threshold
of the Sistine Chapel with its ceiling-frescoes by
Michael Angelo, only that the suffering here is far
more intense, the wail wilder, the harmonies of
beauty more definitely shattered by the discords of
despair.'

Such are the judgements of the critics on this
drama, and therefore I think I am justified in
choosing it as an example of Shakespeare's best
plays.

I will try as impartially as possible to give the
contents of the play, and then show why it is not
the height of perfection, as it is said to be by the
learned critics, but something quite different.

II

The tragedy of Lear begins with a scene in
which two courtiers, Kent and Gloucester, are
talking. Kent, pointing to a young man who is
present, asks Gloucester whether that is his son.
Gloucester says that he has often blushed to
acknowledge the young man as his son but has

1 *Lear is Cordelia's play. The maternal feeling of the
daughter towards the father — profound subject — a maternity
venerable among all other maternities — so admirably set
forth in the legend of that Roman girl who nursed her old
father in the depths of a prison. There is no spectacle more
holy than that of the young breast near the white beard.
That filial breast is Cordelia.

'Once this figure was dreamed and found Shakespeare
created his drama . . . Shakespeare, carrying Cordelia in his
thoughts, created that tragedy like a god who having an
aurora to place makes a world expressly for it.'

312 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

now ceased to do so. Kent says: 'I cannot con-
ceive you.' Then Gloucester, in the presence of his
son, says: 'Sir, this young fellow's mother could;
whereupon she grew round- wombed, and had,
indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a hus-
band for her bed. . . .' He goes on to say that he
had another son who was legitimate, but 'though
this knave came somewhat saucily before he was
sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good
sport at his making, and the whoreson must be
acknowledged.'

Such is the introduction. Not to speak of the
vulgarity of these words of Gloucester, they are
also out of place in the mouth of a man whom it
is intended to represent as a noble character. It
is impossible to agree with the opinion of some
critics that these words are put into Gloucester's
mouth to indicate the contempt for illegitimacy
from which Edmund suffered. Were that so, it
would in the first place have been necessary to
make the father express the contempt felt by
people in general, and secondly Edmund, in his
monologue about the injustice of those who despise
him for his birth, should have referred to his
father's words. But this is not done, and therefore
these words of Gloucester's at the very beginning
of the piece were merely for the purpose of in-
forming the public in an amusing way of the fact
that Gloucester has a legitimate and an illegitimate
son.

After this trumpets are blown, King Lear enters
with his daughters and sons-in-law, and makes a
speech about being aged and wishing to stand
aside from affairs and divide his kingdom between
his daughters. In order to know how much he
should give to each daughter he announces that
to the daughter who tells him she loves him most

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 313

he will give most. The eldest daughter, Goneril,
says that there are no words to express her love,
that she loves him 'dearer than eyesight, space,
and liberty', and she loves him so much that it
'makes her breath poor'. King Lear immediately
allots on the map to this daughter her share, with
fields, woods, rivers, and meadows, and puts the
same question to his second daughter. The second
daughter, Regan, says that her sister has correctly
expressed her own feelings, but insufficiently. She,
Regan, loves her father so that everything is
abhorrent to her except his love. The King rewards
this daughter also, and asks his youngest, favourite
daughter, in whom, according to his expression,
'the wine of France and milk of Burgundy strive
to be interess'd' — that is, who is courted by the
King of France and the Duke of Burgundy — asks
Cordelia how she loves him. Cordelia, who per-
sonifies all the virtues as the two elder sisters
personify all the vices, says quite inappropriately,
as if on purpose to vex her father, that though she
loves and honours him and is grateful to him, yet,
if she marries, not all her love will belong to him,
but she will love her husband also.

On hearing these words the King is beside him-
self, and immediately curses his favourite daughter
with most terrible and strange maledictions, saying,
for instance, that he will love a man who eats his
own children as much as he now loves her who
was once his daughter.

The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd,
As thou, my sometime daughter.

The courtier, Kent, takes Cordelia's part, and
wishing to bring the King to reason upbraids him

314 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

with his injustice and speaks reasonably about the
evil of flattery. Lear, without attending to Kent,
banishes him under threat of death, and calling
to him Cordelia's two suitors, the King of France
and the Duke of Burgundy, proposes to each in
turn to take Cordelia without a dowry. The Duke
of Burgundy says plainly that he will not take
Cordelia without a dowry, but the King of France
takes her without dowry and leads her away. After
this the elder sisters, there and then conversing
with one another, prepare to offend their father
who had endowed them. So ends the first scene.

Not to mention the inflated, characterless style in
which King Lear — like all Shakespeare's kings —
talks, the reader or spectator cannot believe that
a king, however old and stupid, could believe the
words of the wicked daughters with whom he had
lived all their lives, and not trust his favourite
daughter, but curse and banish her; therefore the
reader or spectator cannot share the feeling of the
persons who take part in this unnatural scene.

Scene II begins with Edmund, Gloucester's
illegitimate son, soliloquizing on the injustice of
men who concede rights and respect to a legitimate
son but deny them to an illegitimate son, and he
determines to ruin Edgar and usurp his place. For
this purpose he forges a letter to himself, as from
Edgar, in which the latter is made to appear to
wish to kill his father. Having waited till Gloucester
appears, Edmund, as if against his own desire,
shows him this letter, and the father immediately
believes that his son Edgar, whom he tenderly
loves, wishes to kill him. The father goes away,
Edgar enters, and Edmund suggests to him that
his father for some reason wishes to kill him. Edgar
also at once believes him, and flees from his father.

The relations between Gloucester and his two

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 315

sons, and the feelings of these characters, are as
unnatural as Lear's relation to his daughters, if not
more so; and therefore it is even more difficult for
the spectator to put himself into the mental condi-
tion of Gloucester and his sons and to sympathize
with them, than it was in regard to Lear and his
daughters.

In Scene IV the banished Kent, disguised so that
Lear does not recognize him, presents himself to
the King who is now staying with Goneril. Lear
asks who he is, to which Kent, one does not know
why, replies in a jocular tone quite inappropriate
to his position: 'A very honest-hearted fellow and
as poor as the King.' 'If thou be'st as poor for
a subject as he's for a King, thou art poor enough,'
replies Lear. 'How old art thou?' 'Not so young,
sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old as to
dote on her for anything,' to which the King replies
that if he likes him not worse after dinner he will
let him remain in his service.

This talk fits in neither with Lear's position nor
with Kent's relation to him, and is evidently put
into their mouths only because the author thought
it witty and amusing.

Goneril's steward appears and is rude to Lear,
for which Kent trips him up. The King, who still
does not recognize Kent, gives him money for this
and takes him into his service. After this the fool
appears, and a talk begins between the fool and
the King, quite out of accord with the situation,
leading to nothing, prolonged, and intended to be
amusing. Thus, for instance, the fool says, 'Give me
an egg, and I'll give thee two crowns.' The King
asks what crowns they shall be. 'Why, after I have
cut the egg i'the middle and eat up the meat, the
two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy
crown i'the middle, and gavest away both parts,

316 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

thou borest thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt;
thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou
gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself
in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so.'

In this manner prolonged conversations go on,
producing in the spectator or reader a sense of
wearisome discomfort such as one experiences when
listening to dull jokes.

This conversation is interrupted by the arrival
of Goneril. She demands that her father should
diminish his retinue: instead of a hundred courtiers
he should be satisfied with fifty. On hearing this
proposal Lear is seized with terrible, unnatural
rage, and asks:

Does any here know me? This is not Lear!

Does Lear walk thus? Speak thus? Where are his eyes?

Either his notion weakens, his discernings

Are lethargied. Ha! Waking? 'tis not so,

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

and so forth.

Meanwhile the fool unceasingly interpolates his
humourless jokes. Goneril's husband appears and
wishes to appease Lear, but Lear curses Goneril,
invoking sterility upon her, or the birth of such
a child as would repay with ridicule and contempt
her maternal cares, and would thereby show her
all the horror and suffering caused by a child's
ingratitude.

These words, which express a genuine feeling,
might have been touching had only this been said,
but they are lost among long high-flown speeches
Lear continually utters quite inappropriately.
Now he calls down blasts and fogs on his daughter's
head, now desires that curses should 'pierce every
sense about thee', or, addressing his own eyes, says
that if they weep he will pluck them out and cast

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 317

them, with the waters that they lose, 'to temper
clay'.

After this Lear sends Kent, whom he still does
not recognize, to his other daughter and notwith-
standing the despair he has just expressed he talks
with the fool and incites him to jests. The jests
continue to be mirthless, and besides the unpleasant
feeling akin to shame that one feels at unsuccessful
witticisms, they are so long-drawn-out as to be
wearisome. So, for instance, the fool asks the King,
'Canst thou tell why one's nose stands i' the middle
of one's face?' Lear says he does not know.

'Why, to keep one's eyes of either side one's
nose: that what a man cannot smell out he may
spy into.'

'Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?' the
fool asks.

'No.'

'Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has
a house.5

'Why?'

'Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to
his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.'

'Be my horses ready?' asks Lear.

'Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why
the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty
reason.'

'Because they are not eight?' says Lear.

'Yes, indeed; thou wouldst make a good fool,'
says the fool, and so forth.

After this long scene a gentleman comes and
announces that the horses are ready. The fool says :

She that ' s a maid now and laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter,

and goes off.

Scene I of Act II begins with the villain Edmund

3i8 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

persuading his brother, when his father enters, to
pretend that they are fighting with their swords.
Edgar agrees, though it is quite incomprehensible
why he should do so. The father finds them
fighting. Edgar runs away, and Edmund scratches
his own arm to draw blood, and persuades his
father that Edgar was using charms to kill his
father and had wanted Edmund to help him, but
that he had refused to do so and Edgar had then
thrown himself upon him and wounded him in the
arm. Gloucester believes everything, curses Edgar,
and transfers all the rights of his elder and legiti-
mate son to the illegitimate Edmund. The Duke
of Cornwall, hearing of this, also rewards Edmund.

In Scene II, before Gloucester's castle, Lear's new
servant Kent, still unrecognized by Lear, begins
without any reason to abuse Oswald (GoneriPs
steward), calling him 'a knave, a rascal, an cater
of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly,
three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-
stocking knave; . . . the son and heir of a mongrel
bitch', and so on. Then, drawing his sword, he
demands that Oswald should fight him, saying that
he will make of him a 'sop o' the moonshine',
words no commentator has been able to explain,
and when he is stopped he continues to give vent
to the strangest abuse, saying, for instance, that he,
Oswald, has been made by a tailor, because 'a
stone-cutter, or a painter, could not have made
him so ill, though they had been but two hours
at the trade'. He also says that if he is allowed he
will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and
daub the wall of a privy with him.

And in this way Kent, whom nobody recognizes
— though both the King and the Duke of Cornwall,
as well as Gloucester who is present, should know
him well — continues to brawl in the character of

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 319

a new servant of Lear's, until he is seized and put
in the stocks.

Scene III takes place on a heath. Edgar, flying
from his father's pursuit, hides himself in a tree,
and he tells the audience what kinds of lunatics
there are, beggars who go about naked, thrust pins
and wooden pricks into their bodies, and scream
with wild voices and enforce charity, and he says
that he intends to play the part of such a lunatic in
order to escape from the pursuit. Having told the
audience this he goes off.

Scene IV is again before Gloucester's castle.
Lear and the fool enter. Lear sees Kent in the
stocks and, still not recognizing him, is inflamed
with anger against those who have dared so to
treat his messenger, and he calls for the Duke and
Regan. The fool goes on with his queer sayings.
Lear with difficulty restrains his anger. The Duke
and Regan enter. Lear complains of Goneril, but
Regan justifies her sister. Lear curses Goneril, and
when Regan tells him he had better go back to
her sister he is indignant and says: 'Ask her for-
giveness?' and goes on his knees, showing how
improper it would be for him abjectly to beg food
and clothing as charity from his own daughter, and
he curses Goneril with the most terrible curses, and
asks who has dared to put his messenger in the
stocks. Before Regan can answer Goneril arrives.
Lear becomes yet more angry and again curses
Goneril, and when he is told that the Duke had
ordered the stocks he says nothing, for at this
moment Regan tells him that she cannot receive
him now and that he had better return with
Goneril, and in a month's time she will herself
receive him but with only fifty followers instead
of a hundred. Lear again curses Goneril and does
not want to go with her, still hoping that Regan

320 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

will receive him with all his hundred followers, but
Regan now says she will only allow him twenty-
five, and then Lear decides to go back with
Goneril who allows fifty. Then, when Goneril says
that even twenty-five are too many, Lear utters
a long discourse about the superfluous and sufficient
being conditional conceptions, and says that if a
man is allowed only as much as is necessary he is
no different from a beast. And here Lear, or rather
the actor who plays Lear, addresses himself to a
finely dressed woman in the audience, and says
that she too does not need her finery, which does not
keep her warm. After this he falls into a mad rage,
says that he will do something terrible to be
revenged upon his daughters, but will not weep,
and so he departs. The noise of a storm that is
commencing is heard.

Such is the second Act, full of unnatural occur-
rences and still more unnatural speeches not flowing
from the speaker's circumstances, and finishing
with the scene between Lear and his daughters
which might be powerful if it were not overloaded
with speeches most naively absurd and unnatural,
and quite inappropriate moreover, put into Lear's
mouth. Lear's vacillations between pride, anger,
and hope of concessions from his daughters would
be exceedingly touching were they not spoilt by
these verbose absurdities which he utters about
being ready to divorce Regan's dead mother should
Regan not be glad to see him, or about evoking
'fensucked fogs' to infect his daughter, or about
the heavens being obliged to protect old men as
they themselves are old, and much else.

Act III begins with thunder, lightning, and
storm — a special kind of storm such as there never
was before, as one of the characters in the play says.
On the heath a gentleman tells Kent that Lear,

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 321

expelled by his daughters from their houses, is
wandering about the heath alone tearing his hair
and throwing it to the winds, and that only the
fool is with him. Kent tells the gentleman that the
Dukes have quarrelled and that a French army
has landed at Dover, and having communicated
this he dispatches the gentleman to Dover to meet
Cordelia.

Scene II of Act III also takes place on the heath.
Lear walks about the heath and utters words
intended to express despair: he wishes the winds
to blow so hard that they (the winds) should crack
their cheeks, and that the rain should drench
everything, and that the lightning should singe his
white head and thunder strike the earth flat and
destroy all the germs 'that make ingrateful man!'
The fool keeps uttering yet more senseless words.
Kent enters. Lear says that for some reason all
criminals shall be discovered and exposed in this
storm. Kent, still not recognized by Lear, per-
suades Lear to take shelter in a hovel. The fool
thereupon utters a prophecy quite unrelated to the
situation and they all go off.

Scene II is again transferred to Gloucester's
castle. Gloucester tells Edmund that the French
king has already landed with an army and intends
to help Lear. On learning this Edmund decides to
accuse his father of treason in order to supplant him.

Scene IV is again on the heath in front of the
hovel. Kent invites Lear to enter the hovel, but
Lear replies that he has no reason to shelter himself
from the storm, that he does not feel it, as the
tempest in his mind aroused by his daughters'
ingratitude overpowers all else. This true feeling,
if expressed in simple words, might evoke sympathy,
but amid his inflated and incessant ravings it is
hard to notice it, and it loses its significance.

459 vr

322 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

The hovel to which Lear is led turns out to be
the same that Edgar has entered disguised as a
madman, that is to say, without clothes. Edgar
comes out of the hovel and, though they all know
him, nobody recognizes him any more than they
recognize Kent; and Edgar, Lear, and the fool,
begin to talk nonsense which continues with inter-
vals for six pages. In the midst of this scene
Gloucester enters (who also fails to recognize either
Kent or his own son Edgar), and tells them how
his son Edgar wished to kill him.

This scene is again interrupted by one in
Gloucester's castle, during which Edmund betrays
his father and the Duke declares he will be revenged
on Gloucester. The scene again shifts to Lear.
Kent, Edgar, Gloucester, Lear, and the fool are
in a farm-house and are talking. Edgar says:
'Frateretto calls me and tells me, Nero is an angler
in the lake of darkness. . . .' The fool says: 'Nuncle,
tell me, whether a madman be a gentleman, or
a yeoman?' Lear, who is out of his mind, says that
a madman is a king. The fool says: 'No, he's a
yeoman, that has a gentleman to his son; for he's
a mad yeoman, that sees his son a gentleman
before him.' Lear cries out: 'To have a thousand
with red burning spits come hissing in upon them.5
And Edgar shrieks that the foul fiend bites his
back. Then the fool utters an adage that one
cannot trust 'the tameness of a wolf, a horse's
health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath'. Then Lear
imagines that he is trying his daughters. 'Most
learned justicer,' says he addressing the naked
Edgar. 'Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she
foxes!' To this Edgar says:

Look, where he stands and glares !
Wantonest thou eyes at trial, madam?
Gome o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me !

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 323

and the fool sings:

Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak

Why she dares not come over to thee.

Edgar again says something, and Kent begs Lear
to lie down, but Lear continues his imaginary trial.

Bring in the evidence.

Thou robed man ol justice, take thy place; (to Edgm]
And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, (to the fool)
Bench by his side. You are of the commission, (to Kent)
Sit you too.

'Pur! the cat is grey,' cries Edgar.

'Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril,* says Lear. 'I
here take my oath before this honourable assembly,
she kicked the poor King her father.'

Fool'. Gome hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?
(addressing a joint-stool]

Lear: And here's another. . . . Stop her there!

Arms, arms, sword, fire ! Corruption in the place '
False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape?

and so on.

This raving ends by Lear falling asleep and
Gloucester persuading Kent, still without recogniz-
ing him, to take the King to Dover. Kent and the
fool carry Lear off.

The scene changes to Gloucester's castle.
Gloucester himself is accused of treason, and is
brought in and bound. The Duke of Cornwall
tears out one of his eyes and stamps on it. Regan
says that one eye is still whole and that this healthy
eye is laughing at the other eye, and urges the
Duke to crush it too. The Duke is about to do so,
but for some reason one of the servants suddenly
takes Gloucester's part and wounds the Duke.
Regan kills the servant. The servant dies and tells
Gloucester that he has still one eye to sec that the

322 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

The hovel to which Lear is led turns out to be
the same that Edgar has entered disguised as a
madman, that is to say, without clothes. Edgar
comes out of the hovel and, though they all know
him, nobody recognizes him any more than they
recognize Kent; and Edgar, Lear, and the fool,
begin to talk nonsense which continues with inter-
vals for six pages. In the midst of this scene
Gloucester enters (who also fails to recognize either
Kent or his own son Edgar), and tells them how
his son Edgar wished to kill him.

This scene is again interrupted by one in
Gloucester's castle, during which Edmund betrays
his father and the Duke declares he will be revenged
on Gloucester. The scene again shifts to Lear.
Kent, Edgar, Gloucester, Lear, and the fool are
in a farm-house and are talking. Edgar says:
'Frateretto calls me and tells me, Nero is an angler
in the lake of darkness. . . .' The fool says: 'Nuncle,
tell me, whether a madman be a gentleman, or
a yeoman?' Lear, who is out of his mind, says that
a madman is a king. The fool says: 'No, he's a
yeoman, that has a gentleman to his son; for he's
a mad yeoman, that sees his son a gentleman
before him.' Lear cries out: 'To have a thousand
with red burning spits come hissing in upon them.5
And Edgar shrieks that the foul fiend bites his
back. Then the fool utters an adage that one
cannot trust 'the tameness of a wolf, a horse's
health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath'. Then Lear
imagines that he is trying his daughters. 'Most
learned justicer,' says he addressing the naked
Edgar. 'Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she
foxes!' To this Edgar says:

Look, where he stands and glares !
Wantonest thou eyes at trial, madam?
Gome o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me !

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 323

and the fool sings:

Her boat hath a leak,

And she must not speak

Why she dares not come over to thee.

Edgar again says something, and Kent begs Lear
to lie down, but Lear continues his imaginary trial.

Bring in the evidence.

Thou robed man oi justice, take thy place; (to Edgar)
And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity, (to the fool)
Bench by his side. You are of the commission, (to Kent)
Sit you too.

"Pur! the cat is grey,' cries Edgar.

'Arraign her first; 'tis Goneril,5 says Lear. 'I
here take my oath before this honourable assembly,
she kicked the poor King her father.'

Fool: Gome hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

(addressing a joint-stool)
Lear: And here's another. . . . Stop her there!

Arms, arms, sword, fire ! Corruption in the place !

False justicer, why hast thou let her 'scape?

and so on.

This raving ends by Lear falling asleep and
Gloucester persuading Kent, still without recogniz-
ing him, to take the King to Dover. Kent and the
fool carry Lear off.

The scene changes to Gloucester's castle.
Gloucester himself is accused of treason, and is
brought in and bound. The Duke of Cornwall
tears out one of his eyes and stamps on it. Regan
says that one eye is still whole and that this healthy
eye is laughing at the other eye, and urges the
Duke to crush it too. The Duke is about to do so,
but for some reason one of the servants suddenly
takes Gloucester's part and wounds the Duke.
Regan kills the servant. The servant dies and tells
Gloucester that he has still one eye to see that the

324 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

evil-doer is punished. The Duke says: 'Lest it see
more, prevent it: out, vile jelly!' and tears out
Gloucester's other eye and throws it on the floor.
Here Regan mentions that Edmund has denounced
his father, and Gloucester suddenly understands
that he has been deceived and that Edgar did not
wish to kill him.

This ends the third Act. Act IV is again in the
open country. Edgar, still in the guise of a maniac,
talks in artificial language about the perversities
of fate and the advantages of a humble lot. Then,
curiously enough, to the very spot on the open
heath where he is, comes his father, blind Glou-
cester, led by an old man, and he too talks about
the perversities of fate in that curious Shake-
spearian language the chief peculiarity of which
is that the thoughts arise either from the sound of
the words, or by contrast. He tells the old man
who leads him to leave him. The old man says
that without eyes one cannot go alone, because
one cannot see the way. Gloucester says:

'I have no way, and therefore want no eyes.'

And he argues that he stumbled when he saw
and that our defects often save us.

'Ah! dear son Edgar,' adds he,

The food of thy abused father's wrath.
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
I'd say I had eyes again!

Edgar, naked, in the character of a lunatic, hears
this, but does not disclose himself; he takes the
place of the old man who had acted as guide, and
talks with his father who does not recognize his
voice and believes him to be a madman. Gloucester
takes the opportunity to utter a witticism about
'when madmen lead the blind', and insists on
driving away the old man, obviously not from

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 325

motives which might be natural to him at that
moment, but merely to enact an imaginary leap
over the cliff when left alone with Edgar. And
though he has only just seen his blinded father
and learned that he repents of having driven him
away, Edgar utters quite unnecessary sayings which
Shakespeare might know, having read them in
Harsnet's book,1 but which Edgar had no means
of becoming acquainted with, and which, above all,
it is quite unnatural for him to utter in his then
condition. He says:

4 Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of
lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumb-
ness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; and
Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who
since possesses chamber-maids and waiting- women. '

On hearing these words, Gloucester gives Edgar
his purse, saying:

That I am wretched

Makes thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still !

Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man

That braves your ordinance, that will not see

Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;

So distribution should undo excess,

And each man have enough.

Having uttered these strange words, the blind
Gloucester demands that Edgar should lead him
to a cliff that he does not himself know, but that
hangs over the sea, and they depart.

Scene II of Act IV takes place before the Duke
of Albany's palace. Goneril is not only cruel but
also dissolute. She despises her husband, and dis-
closes her love to the villain Edmund, who has
obtained his father's title of Gloucester. Edmund

1 A Declaration of egregious popish ''mpostures, etc., by Dr.
Samuel Harsnet, London, 1603, which contains almost all
that Edgar says in his feigned madness. — A. M.

326 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

goes away and a conversation takes place between
Goneril and her husband. The Duke of Albany,
the only character who shows human feelings, has
already grown dissatisfied with his wife's treatment
of her father, and now definitely takes Lear's part,
but he expresses himself in words which destroy
one's belief in his feelings. He says that a bear
would lick Lear's reverence, and that if the heavens
do not send their visible spirits to tame these vile
offences, humanity must prey on itself like monsters,
and so forth.

Goneril does not listen to him, and he then begins
to denounce her.
He says:

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend

So horrid, as in woman.

'O vain fool !' says Goneril, but the Duke continues:

Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,

Be-monster not thy feature. Were it my fitness

To let these hands obey my blood,

They are apt enough to dislocate and tear

Thy flesh and bones : — Howe'er thou art a fiend,

A woman's shape doth shield thee.

After this a messenger enters and announces that
the Duke of Cornwall, wounded by a servant while
he was tearing out Gloucester's eyes, has died.
Goneril is glad, but already anticipates with fear
that Regan, being now a widow, will snatch
Edmund from her. This ends the second scene.

Scene III of Act IV represents the French camp.
From a conversation between Kent and a gentle-
man, the reader or spectator learns that the King
of France is not in the camp, and that Cordelia
has received a letter from Kent and is greatly
grieved by what she learns about her father. The

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 327

gentleman says that her face reminded one of sun-
shine and rain.

Her smiles and tears

Were like a better day : Those happy smilets,
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes ; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd,

and so forth. The gentleman says that Cordelia
desires to see her father, but Kent says that Lear
is ashamed to see the daughter he has treated so
badly.

In Scene IV Cordelia, talking with a physician,
tells him that Lear has been seen, and that he is
quite mad, wearing on his head a wreath of various
weeds and roaming about, and that she has sent
soldiers to find him, and she adds the wish that
all secret medicinal virtues of the earth may spring
to him in her tears, and so forth.

She is told that the forces of the Dukes are
approaching; but she is only concerned about her
father, and goes off.

In Scene V of Act IV, which is in Gloucester's
castle, Regan talks with Oswald, Goneril's steward,
who is carrying a letter from Goneril to Edmund,
and tells him that she also loves Edmund and that
as she is a widow it is better for her to marry him
than for Goneril to do so, and she asks Oswald to
persuade her sister of this. Moreover she tells him
that it was very unwise to put out Gloucester's
eyes and yet to let him live, and therefore she
advises Oswald if he meets Gloucester to kill him,
and promises him a great reward if he does so.

In Scene VI Gloucester again appears with his
unrecognized son Edgar, who, now dressed as a
peasant, is leading his father to the cliff. Gloucester
is walking along on level ground, but Edgar assures
him that they are with difficulty ascending a steep

328 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

hill. Gloucester believes this. Edgar tells his father
that the noise of the sea is audible; Gloucester
believes this also. Edgar stops on a level place
and assures his father that he has ascended the
cliff and that below him is a terrible abyss, and he
leaves him alone. Gloucester, addressing the gods,
says that he shakes off his affliction as he could not
bear it longer without condemning them, the gods,
and having said this he leaps on the level ground
and falls, imagining that he has jumped over the
cliff. Edgar thereupon utters to himself a yet more
confused phrase:

And yet I know not how conceit may rob

The treasury of life, when life itself

Yields to the theft; had he been where he thought,

By this had thought been past,

and he goes up to Gloucester pretending to be
again a different man, and expresses astonishment
at the latter not having been killed by his fall from
such a dreadful height. Gloucester believes that
he has fallen and prepares to die, but he feels that
he is alive and begins to doubt having fallen. Then
Edgar assures him that he really did jump from
a terrible height, and says that the man who was
with him at the top was a fiend, for he had eyes
like two full moons, and a thousand noses, and
wavy horns.

Gloucester believes this, and is persuaded that
his despair was caused by the devil, and therefore
decides that he will despair no longer but will
quietly await death. Just then Lear enters, for
some reason all covered with wild flowers. He has
gone mad and utters speeches yet more meaning-
less than before. He talks about coining money,
about a bow, calls for a clothier's yard, then he
cries out that he sees a mouse which he wishes to

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 329

entice with a piece of cheese, and then he suddenly
asks the password of Edgar, who at once replies
with the words, 'Sweet Marjoram'. Lear says,
'Pass!5 and the blind Gloucester, who did not
recognize his son's or Kent's voice, recognizes the
King's.

Then the King, after his disconnected utterances,
suddenly begins to speak ironically about flatterers
who said 'ay and no' like the theologians and
assured him that he could do everything, but when
he got into a storm without shelter he saw that
this was not true; and then he goes on to say that
as all creatures are wanton, and as Gloucester's
bastard son was kinder to his father than Lear's
daughters had been to theirs (though, according
to the course of the play, Lear could know nothing
of Edmund's treatment of Gloucester), therefore
let copulation thrive, especially as he, a King, lacks
soldiers. And thereupon he addresses an imaginary,
hypocritically virtuous lady who acts the prude
while at the same time, like an animal in heat, she
is addicted to lust. All women 'but to the girdle
do the gods inherit. Beneath is all the fiend's . . /,
and saying this Lear screams and spits with horror.
This monologue is evidently meant to be addressed
by actor to audience, and probably produces an
effect on the stage, but is quite uncalled for in the
mouth of Lear — as is his desire to wipe his hand
because it 'smells of mortality' when Gloucester
wishes to kiss it. Then Gloucester's blindness is
referred to, which gives an opportunity for a play
of words on eyes and Cupid's blindness, and for
Lear to say that Gloucester has 'no eyes in your
head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes
are in a heavy case, your purse in a light.' Then
Lear declaims a monologue on the injustice of legal
judgement, which is quite out of place in his

330 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

mouth seeing that he is insane. Then a gentleman
enters with attendants, sent by Cordelia to fetch
her father. Lear continues to behave madly and
runs away. The gentleman sent to fetch Lear does
not run after him but continues to tell Edgar
lengthily about the position of the French and the
British armies.

Oswald enters, and seeing Gloucester and wishing
to obtain the reward promised by Regan, attacks
him; but Edgar, with his stave, kills Oswald, who
when dying gives Edgar (the man who has killed
him) Goneril's letter to Edmund, the delivery of
which will earn a reward. In this letter Goneril
promises to kill her husband and marry Edmund.
Edgar drags out Oswald's body by the legs, and
then returns and leads his father away.

Scene VII of Act IV takes place in a tent in the
French camp. Lear is asleep on a bed. Cordelia
enters with Kent, still in disguise. Lear is awakened
by music, and seeing Cordelia does not believe she
is alive but thinks her an apparition, and does not
believe that he is himself alive. Cordelia assures
him that she is his daughter and begs him to bless
her. He goes on his knees before her, begs for-
giveness, admits himself to be old and foolish, and
says he is ready to take poison, which he thinks
she probably has prepared for him as he is per-
suaded that she must hate him.

For your sisters

Have, as I do remember, done me wrong;
You have some cause, they have not.

Then little by little he comes to his senses and
ceases to rave. His daughter suggests that he
should take a little walk. He consents, and says:

You must bear with me:
Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 331

They go off. The gentleman and Kent, who
remain on the scene, talk in order to explain to
the audience that Edmund is at the head of the
forces and that a battle must soon begin between
Lear's defenders and his enemies. So Act IV ends.

In this Fourth Act the scene between Lear and
his daughter might have been touching had it not
been preceded in three previous acts by the tedious
monotonous ravings of Lear, and also had it been
the final scene expressing his feelings, but it is not
the last.

In Act V Lear's former cold, pompous, artificial
ravings are repeated, destroying the impression the
preceding scene might have produced.

Scene I of Act V shows us Edmund and Regan
(who is jealous of her sister and offers herself to
Edmund). Then Goneril comes on with her hus-
band and soldiers. The Duke of Albany, though he
pities Lear, considers it his duty to fight against
the French who have invaded his country, and so
prepares himself for battle.

Then Edgar enters, still disguised, and hands the
Duke of Albany the letter, and says that if the Duke
wins the battle he should let a herald sound a
trumpet, and then (this is 800 years B.C.) a cham-
pion will appear who will prove that the contents
of the letter are true.

In Scene II Edgar enters leading his father,
whom he seats by a tree, and himself goes off. The
sounds of a battle are heard, Edgar runs back and
says that the battle is lost; Lear and Cordelia are
prisoners. Gloucester is again in despair. Edgar,
still not disclosing himself to his father, tells him
that he should not despair, and Gloucester at once
agrees with him.

Scene III opens with a triumphal progress of
Edmund the victor. Lear and Cordelia are

332 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

prisoners. Lear, though he is now no longer insane,
sf '"11 utters the same sort of senseless, inappropriate
words, as, for instance, that in prison with Cordelia,

We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage,
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness.

(This kneeling down comes three times over.) He
also says that when they are in prison they will
wear out poor rogues and 'sects of great ones that
ebb and flow by the moon', that he and she are
sacrifices upon which 'the gods throw incense',
that 'he that parts them shall bring a brand from
heaven, and fire us hence like foxes', and that

The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep,

and so forth.

Edmund orders Lear and his daughter to be led
away to prison, and having ordered a captain to
do them some hurt, asks him whether he will fulfil
it. The captain replies, 'I cannot draw a cart, nor
eat dried oats; but if it be man's work I will do it.'
The Duke of Albany, Goneril, and Regan enter.
The Duke wishes to take Lear's part, but Edmund
opposes this. The sisters intervene and begin to
abuse each other, being jealous of Edmund. Here
everything becomes so confused that it is difficult
to follow die action. The Duke of Albany wants to
arrest Edmund, and tells Regan that Edmund had
long ago entered into guilty relations with his wife
and that therefore Regan must give up her claim
on Edmund, and if she wishes to marry should
marry him, the Duke of Albany.

Having said this, the Duke challenges Edmund
and orders the trumpet to be sounded, and if no
one appears intends himself to fight him.

At this point Regan, whom Goneril has evidently

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 333

poisoned, writhes with pain. Trumpets are
sounded and Edgar enters with a visor which
conceals his face, and without giving his name
challenges Edmund. Edgar abuses Edmund;
Edmund casts back all the abuse on Edgar's head.
They fight and Edmund falls. Goneril is in despair.

The Duke of Albany shows Goneril her letter.
Goneril goes off.

Edmund, while dyins;, recognizes that his op-
ponent is his brother. Edgar raises his visor and
moralizes to the effect that for having an illegiti-
mate son, Edmund, his father has paid with the
loss of his sight. After this Edgar tells the Duke of
Albany of his adventures and that he has only
now, just before coming to this combat, disclosed
himself to his father, and his father could not bear
it and died of excitement. Edmund, who is not
yet dead, asks what else happened.

Then Edgar relates that while he was sitting by
his father's body a man came, embraced him
closely, cried out as if he would burst heaven,
threw himself on his father's corpse, and told a
most piteous tale about Lear and himself, and
having told it 'the strings of life began to crack',
but just then the trumpet sounded twice and he,
Edgar, left him 'tranced'. And this was Kent.
Before Edgar has finished telling this story a
gentleman runs in with a bloody knife, shouting,
'Help!' To the question 'Who has been killed?'
the gentleman says that Goneril is dead, who had
poisoned her sister. She had confessed this. Kent
enters, and at this moment the bodies of Regan
and Goneril are brought in. Edmund thereupon
says that evidently the sisters loved him greatly,
as the one had poisoned the other and then killed
herself for his sake. At the same time he confesses
that he had given orders to kill Lear and hang

334 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

Cordelia in prison, under the pretence that she had
committed suicide; but that he now wishes to
prevent this, and, having said so, he dies and is
carried out.

After this Lear enters with Cordelia's dead body
in his arms (though he is over eighty years of age
and ill). And again there begin his terrible ravings
which make one feel as ashamed as one does when
listening to unsuccessful jokes. Lear demands that
they should all howl, and alternately believes that
Cordelia is dead and that she is alive. He says:

Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack.

Then he recounts how he has killed the slave
who hanged Cordelia. Next he says that his eyes
see badly, and thereupon recognizes Kent whom
all along he had not recognized.

The Duke of Albany says that he resigns his
power as long as Lear lives, and that he will
reward Edgar and Kent and all who have been
true to him. At that moment news is brought that
Edmund has died; and Lear, continuing his
ravings, begs that they will undo one of his buttons,
the same request that he made when roaming
about the heath. He expresses his thanks for this,
tells them all to look somewhere, and with these
words he dies.

In conclusion the Duke of Albany, who remains
alive, says:

The weight of this sad time we must obey ;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

All go off to the sound of a dead march. This
ends Act V of the play.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 335

III

Such is this celebrated play. Absurd as it may
appear in this rendering (which I have tried to
make as impartial as possible), I can confidently
say that it is yet more absurd in the original. To
any man of our time, were he not under the
hypnotic influence of the suggestion that this play
is the height of perfection, it would be enough to
read it to the end, had he patience to do so, to
convince himself that far from being the height of
perfection it is a very poor, carelessly constructed
work, which if it may have been of interest to a
certain public of its own day, can evoke nothing
but aversion and weariness in us now. And any
man of our day free from such suggestion would
receive just the same impression from the other
much praised dramas of Shakespeare, not to speak
of the absurd dramatized tales, Pericles, Twelfth
Nighty The Tempest, Cymbeline, and Troilus and
Cressida.

But such free-minded people not predisposed to
Shakespeare worship, are no longer to be found in
our time and in our Christian society. The idea
that Shakespeare is a poetic and dramatic genius,
and that all his works are the height of perfection,
has been instilled into every man of our society
and time from an early period of his conscious life.
And therefore, superfluous as it would seem, I will
try to indicate, in the play of King Lear which I
have chosen, the defects characteristic of all Shake-
speare's tragedies and comedies, as a result of which
they not only fail to furnish models of dramatic
art but fail to satisfy the most elementary and
generally recognized demands of art.

According to the laws laid down by those very
critics who extol Shakespeare, the conditions of

336 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

every tragedy are that the persons who appear
should, as a result of their own characters, actions,
and the natural movement of events, be brought
into conditions in which, finding themselves in
opposition to the world around them, they should
struggle with it and in that struggle display their
inherent qualities.

In the tragedy of King Lear the persons repre-
sented are indeed externally placed in opposition
to the surrounding world and struggle against it.
But the struggle does not result from a natural
course of events and from their own characters,
but is quite arbitrarily arranged by the author and
therefore cannot produce on the reader that illusion
which constitutes the chief condition of art. Lear
is under no necessity to resign his power, and has
no reason to do so. And having lived with his
daughters all their lives he also has no reason to
believe the words of the two elder, and not the
truthful statement of the youngest; yet on this the
whole tragedy of his position is built.

Equally unnatural is the secondary and very
similar plot : the relation of Gloucester to his sons.
The position of Gloucester and Edgar arises from
the fact that Gloucester, like Lear, immediately
believes the very grossest deception, and does not
even try to ask the son who had been deceived,
whether the accusation against him is true, but
curses him and drives him away.

The fact that the relation of Lear to his daughters
is just the same as that of Gloucester to his sons,
makes one feel even more strongly that they are
both arbitrarily invented and do not flow from the
characters or the natural course of events. Equally
unnatural and obviously invented is the fact that
all through the play Lear fails to recognize his old
courtier, Kent; and so the relations of Lear and

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 337

Kent fail to evoke the sympathy of reader or
hearer. This applies in an even greater degree to
the position of Edgar, whom nobody recognizes,
who acts as guide to his blind father and persuades
him that he has leapt from a cliff when he has
really jumped on level ground.

These positions in which the characters are quite
arbitrarily placed are so unnatural that the reader
or spectator is unable either to sympathize with
their sufferings or even to be interested in what he
reads or hears. That in the first place.

Secondly there is the fact that both in this and
in Shakespeare's other dramas all the people live,
think, speak, and act, quite out of accord with the
given period and place. The action of King Lear
takes place 800 years B.C., and yet the characters
in it are placed in conditions possible only in the
Middle Ages: Kings, dukes, armies, illegitimate
children, gentlemen, courtiers, doctors, farmers,
officers, soldiers, knights in armour, and so on,
appear in it. Perhaps such anachronisms (of which
all Shakespeare's plays are full) did not infringe
the possibility of illusion in the i6th century and
the beginning of the 1 7th, but in our time it is no
longer possible to be interested in the development
of events that could not have occurred in the condi-
tions the author describes in detail.

The artificiality of the positions, which do not
arise from a natural course of events and from the
characters of the people engaged, and their in-
compatibility with the period and the place, is
further increased by the coarse embellishments
Shakespeare continually makes use of in passages
meant to be specially touching. The extraordinary
storm during which Lear roams about the heath,
the weeds which for some reason he puts on his
head, as Ophelia does in Hamlet, Edgar's attire — all

338 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

these effects, far from strengthening the impression,
produce a contrary effect. 'Man sieht die Absicht
und man wird verstimm?1 as Goethe says. It often
happens — as for instance with such obviously in-
tentional effects as the dragging out of half a dozen
corpses by the legs, with which Shakespeare often
ends his tragedies — that instead of feeling fear and
pity one feels the absurdity of the thing.

IV

Not only are the characters in Shakespeare's
plays placed in tragic positions which are quite
impossible, do not result from the course of events,
and are inappropriate to the period and the place,
they also behave in a way that is quite arbitrary
and not in accord with their own definite charac-
ters. It is customary to assert that in Shakespeare's
dramas character is particularly well expressed and
that with all his vividness his people are as many-
sided as real people, and that while exhibiting the
nature of a certain given individual they also show
the nature of man in general. It is customary to say
that Shakespeare's delineation of character is the
height of perfection. This is asserted with great
confidence and repeated by everyone as an indis-
putable verity, but much as I have tried to find
confirmation of this in Shakespeare's dramas I
have always found the reverse.

From the very beginning of reading any of
Shakespeare's plays I was at once convinced that
it is perfectly evident that he is lacking in the
chief, if not the sole, means of portraying character,
which is individuality of language — that each person
should speak in a way suitable to his own character.
That is lacking in Shakespeare. All his characters
speak not a language of their own but always one
1 'One sees the intention and is put off.'

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 339

and the same Shakespearian, affected, unnatural
language, which not only could they not speak, but
which no real people could ever have spoken
anywhere.

No real people could speak, or could have spoken,
as Lear does — saying that, 'I would divorce me
from thy mother's tomb' if Regan did not receive
him, or telling the winds to 'crack your cheeks',
or bidding 'the wind blow the earth into the sea',
or 'swell the curl'd waters 'bove the main', as the
gentleman describes what Lear said to the storm,
or that it is easier to bear one's griefs and 'the mind
much sufferance doth o'erskip, when grief hath
mates, and bearing fellowship' ('bearing' meaning
suffering), that Lear is 'childed, as I father'd', as
Edgar says, and so forth — unnatural expressions
such as overload the speeches of the people in all
Shakespeare's dramas.

But it is not only that the characters all talk as
no real people ever talked or could talk; they are
also all afflicted by a common intemperance of
language.

In love, preparing for death, fighting, or dying,
they all talk at great length and unexpectedly
about quite irrelevant matters, guided more by
the sounds of the words and by puns than by the
thoughts.

And they all talk alike. Lear raves just as Edgar
does when feigning madness. Kent and the fool
both speak alike. The words of one person can
be put into the mouth of another, and by the
character of the speech it is impossible to know who
is speaking. If there is a difference in the speech
of Shakespeare's characters, it is only that Shake-
speare makes different speeches for his characters,
and not that they speak differently.

Thus Shakespeare always speaks for his kings

340 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

in one and the same inflated, empty language.
Similarly all his women who are intended to be
poetic, speak the same pseudo-sentimental Shake-
spearian language: Juliet, Desdemona, Cordelia,
and Miranda. In just the same way also it is
Shakespeare who always speaks for his villains:
Richard, Edmund, lago, and Macbeth — expressing
for them those malignant feelings which villains
never express. And yet more identical is the talk
of his madmen, with their terrible words, and the
speeches of his fools with their mirthless witticisms.

So that the individual speech of living people
— that individual speech which in drama is the
chief means of presenting character — is lacking in
Shakespeare. (If gesture is also a means of ex-
pressing character, as in the ballet, it is only a
subsidiary means.) If the characters utter what-
ever comes to hand and as it comes to hand and all
in one and the same way, as in Shakespeare, even
the effect of gesture is lost ; and therefore whatever
blind worshippers of Shakespeare may say, Shake-
speare does not show us characters.

Those persons who in his dramas stand out as
characters, are characters borrowed by him from
earlier works which served as the bases of his plays,
and they are chiefly depicted, not in the dramatic
manner which consists of making each person
speak in his own diction, but in the epic manner,
by one person describing the qualities of another.

The excellence of Shakespeare's depiction of
character is asserted chiefly on the ground of the
characters of Lear, Cordelia, Othello, Desdemona,
FalstafT, and Hamlet. But these characters, like
all the others, instead of belonging to Shakespeare,
are taken by him from previous dramas, chronicles,
and romances. And these characters were not
merely not strengthened by him, but for the most

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 341

part weakened and spoilt. This is very evident
in the drama of King Lear which we are consider-
ing, and which was taken by Shakespeare from the
play of King Leir by an unknown author. The
characters of this drama, such as Lear himself and
in particular Cordelia, were not only not created
by Shakespeare, but have been strikingly weakened
by him and deprived of personality as compared
with the older play.

In the older play Leir resigns his power because,
having become a widower, he thinks only of saving
his soul. He asks his daughters about their love
for him in order to keep his youngest and favourite
daughter with him on his island by means of a
cunning device. The two eldest are betrothed,
while the youngest does not wish to contract a
loveless marriage with any of the neighbouring
suitors Leir offers her, and he is afraid she may
marry some distant potentate.

The device he has planned, as he explains to his
courtier Perillus (Shakespeare's Kent), is this: that
when Cordelia tells him that she loves him more
than anyone, or as much as her elder sisters do,
he will say that in proof of her love she must marry
a prince he will indicate on his island.

All these motives of Lear's conduct are lacking
in Shakespeare's play. In the older play, when
Leir asks his daughters about their love for him,
Cordelia does not reply (as Shakespeare has it)
that she will not give her father all her love but
will also love her husband if she marries — to say
which is quite unnatural — she simply says that she
cannot express her love in words but hopes her
actions will prove it. Goneril and Regan make
remarks to the effect that Cordelia's answer is not
an answer and that their father cannot quietly
accept such indifference. So that in the older play

342 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

there is an explanation, lacking in Shakespeare, of
Leir's anger at the youngest daughter's reply. Leir
is vexed at the non-success of his cunning device,
and the venomous words of his elder daughters
add to his irritation. After the division of his
kingdom between the two elder daughters in the
older play comes a scene between Cordelia and
the King of Gaul which, instead of the impersonal
Shakespearian Cordelia, presents us with a very
definite and attractive character in the truthful,
tender, self-denying youngest daughter. While
Cordelia, not repining at being deprived of a share
in the inheritance, sits grieving that she has lost
her father's love, and looking forward to earning
her bread by her own toil, the King of Gaul enters,
who in the disguise of a pilgrim wishes to choose
a bride from among Leir's daughters. He asks
Cordelia the cause of her grief and she tells him.
Having fallen in love with her, he woos her for
the King of Gaul in his pilgrim guise, but Cordelia
says she will only marry a man she loves. Then the
pilgrim offers her his hand and heart, and Cordelia
confesses that she loves him and agrees to marry
him, notwithstanding the poverty and privation
that she thinks await her. Then the pilgrim dis-
closes to her that he is himself the King of Gaul,
and Cordelia marries him.

Instead of this scene Lear, according to Shake-
speare, proposes to Cordelia's two suitors to take
her without dowry, and one cynically refuses,
while the other takes her without our knowing why.

After this in the older play, as in Shakespeare,
Leir undergoes insults from Goneril to whose
house he has gone, but he bears these insults in
a very different way from that represented by
Shakespeare: he feels that by his conduct to Cor-
delia he has deserved them and he meekly sub-

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 343

mits. As in Shakespeare so also in the older play,
the courtier, Perillus (Kent), who has taken
Cordelia's part and has therefore been punished,
comes to Leir; not disguised, but simply as a
faithful servant who does not abandon his King
in a moment of need, and assures him of his love.
Leir says to him what in Shakespeare Lear says
to Cordelia in the last scene — that if his daughters
whom he has benefited hate him, surely one to
whom he has done evil cannot love him. But
Perillus (Kent) assures the King of his love, and
Leir, pacified, goes on to Regan. In the older play
there are no tempests or tearing out of grey hairs,
but there is a weakened old Leir, overpowered
by grief and humbled, and driven out by his second
daughter also, who even wishes to kill him.
Turned out by his elder daughters, Leir in the
older play, as a last resource, goes with Perillus to
Cordelia. Instead of the unnatural expulsion of
Leir during a tempest and his roaming about the
heath, in the old play Leir with Perillus during
their journey to France very naturally come to
the last degree of want. They sell their, clothes to
pay for the sea-crossing, and exhausted by cold
and hunger they approach Cordelia's house in
fishermen's garb. Here again, instead of the un-
natural conjoint ravings of the fool, Lear, and
Edgar, as presented by Shakespeare, we have in
the older play a natural scene of the meeting be-
tween the daughter and father. Cordelia — who
notwithstanding her happiness has all the time
been grieving about her father and praying God
to forgive her sisters who have done him so much
wrong — meets him, now in the last stage of want,
and wishes immediately to disclose herself to him,
but her husband advises her not to do so for fear
of agitating the weak old man. She agrees and

344 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

takes Leir into her house, and without revealing
herself to him takes care of him. Leir revives little
by little, and then the daughter asks him who he
is, and how he lived formerly. If, says Leir,

. . . from the first I should relate the cause,

I would make a heart of adamant to weep.

And thou, poor soul,

Kind-hearted as thou art,

Dost weep already ere I do begin.

Cordelia replies:

For God's love tell it, and when you have done,
I'll tell the reason why I weep so soon.

And Leir relates all he has suffered from his elder
daughters and says that he now wishes to find
shelter with the one who would be right should she
condemn him to death. 'If, however,' he says, 'she
will receive me with love, it will be God's and her
work and not my merit !' To this Cordelia replies,
'Oh, I know for certain that thy daughter will
lovingly receive thee!' 'How canst thou know this
without knowing her?' says Leir. 'I know,' says
Cordelia, 'because not far from here, I had a
father who acted towards me as badly as thou
hast acted towards her, yet if I were only to see
his white head, I would creep to meet him on my
knees.' 'No, this cannot be,' says Leir, 'for there
are no children in the world so cruel as mine.'
'Do not condemn all for the sins of some,' says
Cordelia, falling on her knees. 'Look here, dear
father,' she says, 'look at me: I am thy loving
daughter.' The father recognizes her and says:
'It is not for thee but for me to beg thy pardon
on my knees for all my sins towards thee.'

Is there anything approaching this charming
scene in Shakespeare's drama?

Strange as the opinion may appear to Shake-

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 345

speare's devotees, the whole of this older play is
in all respects beyond compare better than Shake-
speare's adaptation. It is so, first because in it
those superfluous characters — the villain Edmund
and the unnatural Gloucester and Edgar, who only
distract one's attention — do not appear. Secondly,
it is free from the perfectly false 'effects' of Lear's
roaming about on the heath, his talks with the fool,
and all those impossible disguises, non-recognitions,
and wholesale deaths — above all because in this
play there is the simple, natural, and deeply touch-
ing character of Leir, and the yet more touching
and clearly defined character of Cordelia, which
are lacking in Shakespeare. And also because in
the older drama, instead of Shakespeare's daubed
scene of Lear's meeting with Cordelia and her
unnecessary murder, there is the exquisite scene
of Leir's meeting with Cordelia, which is un-
equalled by anything in Shakespeare's drama.

The older play also terminates more naturally
and more in accord with the spectators' moral
demands than does Shakespeare's, namely, by
the King of the Gauls conquering the husbands
of the elder sisters, and Cordelia not perishing,
but replacing Leir in his former position.

This is the position as regards the drama we are
examining, borrowed from the old play King Leir.

It is the same with Othello, which is taken from
an Italian story, and it is the same again with the
famous Hamlet. The same may be said of Antony,
Brutus, Cleopatra, Shylock, Richard, and all
Shakespeare's characters; they are all taken from
antecedent works. Shakespeare, taking the char-
acters already given in previous plays, stories,
chronicles, or in Plutarch's Lives, not only fails to
make them more true to life and more vivid as
his adulators assert, but on the contrary always

346 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

weakens and often destroys them, as in King Lear:
making his characters commit actions unnatural
to them, and making them above all talk in a way
natural neither to them nor to any human being.
So in Othello, though this is — we will not say the
best, but the least bad — the least overloaded with
pompous verbosity, of all Shakespeare's dramas,
the characters of Othello, lago, Cassio, and Emilia
are far less natural and alive in Shakespeare than
in the Italian romance. In Shakespeare Othello
suffers from epilepsy, of which he has an attack on
the stage. Afterwards in Shakespeare the murder
of Desdemona is preceded by a strange vow
uttered by Othello on his knees, and besides this,
Othello in Shakespeare's play is a negro and not
a Moor. All this is unusual, inflated, unnatural,
and infringes the unity of the character. And there
is none of all this in the romance. In the romance
also the causes of Othello's jealousy are more
naturally presented than in Shakespeare. In the
romance Cassio, knowing whose the handkerchief
is, goes to Desdemona to return it, but when
approaching the back door of Desdemona's house
he sees Othello coming and runs away from him.
Othello perceives Gassio running away, and this
it is that chiefly confirms his suspicion. This is
omitted in Shakespeare, and yet this casual incident
explains Othello's jealousy more than anything
else. In Shakespeare this jealousy is based entirely
on lago's machinations, which are always success-
ful, and on his crafty speeches, which Othello
blindly believes. Othello's monologue over the
sleeping Desdemona, to the effect that he wishes
that she when killed should look as she is when
alive, and that he will love her when she is dead
and now wishes to inhale her 'balmy breath' and
so forth, is quite impossible. A man who is pre-

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 347

paring to murder someone he loves cannot utter
such phrases, and still less after the murder can he
say that the sun and the moon ought now to be
eclipsed and the globe to yawn, nor can he, what-
ever kind of a nigger he may be, address devils,
inviting them to roast him in sulphur, and so
forth. And finally, however effective may be his
suicide (which does not occur in the romance) it
quite destroys the conception of his firm character.
If he really suffers from grief and remorse then,
when intending to kill himself, he would not utter
phrases about his own services, about a pearl,
about his eyes dropping tears ' as fast as the Arabian
trees their medicinable gum\ and still less could he
talk about the way a Turk scolded a Venetian, and
how 'thus' he punished him for it! So that despite
the powerful movement of feeling in Othello, when
under the influence of lago's hints jealousy rises
in him, and afterwards in his scene with Desde-
mona, our conception of his character is constantly
infringed by false pathos and by the unnatural
speeches he utters.

So it is with the chief character — Othello. But
notwithstanding the disadvantageous alterations he
has undergone in comparison with the character
from which he is taken in the romance, Othello
still remains a character. But all the other per-
sonages have been quite spoilt by Shakespeare.

lago in Shakespeare's play is a complete villain, a
deceiver, a thief, and avaricious; he robs Roderigo,
succeeds in all sorts of impossible designs, and is
therefore a quite unreal person. In Shakespeare
the motive of his villainy is, first, that he is offended
at Othello not having given him a place he desired ;
secondly, that he suspects Othello of an intrigue
with his wife; and thirdly that, as he says, he feels
a strange sort of love for Desdemona. There are

348 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

many motives, but they are all vague. In the
romance there is one motive, and it is simple and
clear: lago's passionate love for Desdemona,
changing into hatred of her and of Othello after
she had preferred the Moor to him and had
definitely repulsed him. Yet more unnatural is
the quite unnecessary figure of Roderigo, whom
lago deceives and robs, promising him Desde-
mona's love and obliging him to do as he is ordered :
make Cassio drunk, provoke him, and then kill
him. Emilia, who utters anything it occurs to the
author to put into her mouth, bears not even the
slightest resemblance to a real person.

'But Falstaff, the wonderful Falstaff!' Shake-
speare's eulogists will say. 'It is impossible to
assert that he is not a live person, and that, having
been taken out of an anonymous comedy, he has
been weakened.'

FalstafF, like all Shakespeare's characters, was
taken from a play by an unknown author, written
about a real person, a Sir John Oldcastle who was
the friend of some Duke. This Oldcastle had once
been accused of heresy and had been saved by his
friend the Duke, but was afterwards condemned
and burnt at the stake for his religious beliefs,
which clashed with Catholicism. To please the
Roman Catholic public an unknown author wrote
a play about Oldcastle, ridiculing this martyr for
his faith and exhibiting him as a worthless man,
a boon companion of the Duke's, and from this
play Shakespeare took not only the character of
Falstaff but also his own humorous attitude to-
wards him. In the first plays of Shakespeare's in
which this character appears he was called Old-
castle; but afterwards, when under Elizabeth
Protestantism had again triumphed, it was awk-
ward to mock at this martyr of the struggle with

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 349

Catholicism, and besides, Oldcastle's relatives had
protested, and Shakespeare changed the name
from Oldcastle to FalstafF — also an historical
character, notorious for having run away at the
battle of Agincourt.

Falstaff is really a thoroughly natural and
characteristic personage, almost the only natural
and characteristic one depicted by Shakespeare.
And he is natural and characteristic because, of
all Shakespeare's characters, he alone speaks in
a way proper to himself. He speaks in a manner
proper to himself because he talks just that Shake-
spearian language, filled with jests that lack
humour and unamusing puns, which while un-
natural to all Shakespeare's other characters is
quite in harmony with the boastful, distorted, per-
verted character of the drunken Falstaff. That is
the only reason why this figure really presents a
definite character. Unfortunately the artistic effect
of the character is spoilt by the fact that it is so
repulsive in its gluttony, drunkenness, debauchery,
rascality, mendacity, and cowardice, that it is diffi-
cult to share the feeling of merry humour Shake-
speare adopts towards it. Such is the case with
Falstaff.

But in none of Shakespeare's figures is, I will
not say his inability but his complete indifference,
to giving his people characters, so strikingly
noticeable as in the case of Hamlet, and with no
other of Shakespeare's works is the blind worship
of Shakespeare so strikingly noticeable — that un-
reasoning hypnotism which does not even admit
the thought that any production of his can be other
than a work of genius, or that any leading character
in a drama of his can fail to be the expression of
a new and profoundly conceived character.

Shakespeare takes the ancient story — not at all

350 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

bad of its kind — relating: avec quelle ruse Amlet qui
depuis fut Roy de Dannemarch, vengea la mort de son
plre Horwendille, occis par Fengon, son frere, et autre
occurrence de son histoire, or a drama that was written
on the same theme fifteen years before him; and
he writes his play on this subject introducing in-
appropriately (as he constantly does) into the
mouth of the chief character all such thoughts of
his own as seem to him worthy of attention.
Putting these thoughts into his hero's mouth —
about life (the grave-diggers) ; about death ('To
be or not to be'); those he had expressed in his
sixty-sixth sonnet about the theatre and about
women — he did not at all concern himself as to the
circumstances under which these speeches were
to be delivered, and it naturally results that the
person uttering these various thoughts becomes
a mere phonograph of Shakespeare, deprived
of any character of his own; and his actions and
words do not agree.

In the legend Hamlet's personality is quite
intelligible: he is revolted by the conduct of his
uncle and his mother, wishes to be revenged on
them, but fears that his uncle may kill him as he
had killed his father, and therefore pretends to be
mad, wishing to wait and observe all that was
going on at court. But his uncle and his mother,
being afraid of him, wish to find out whether he is
feigning or is really mad, and send a girl he loves
to him. He keeps up his role and afterwards sees
his mother alone, kills a courtier who was eaves-
dropping, and convicts his mother of her sin.
Then he is sent to England. He intercepts letters,
returns from England, and revenges himself on his
enemies, burning them all.

This is all intelligible and flows from Hamlet's
character and position. But Shakespeare, by

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 351

putting into Hamlet's mouth speeches he wished
to publish, and making him perform actions
needed to secure effective scenes, destroys all that
forms Hamlet's character in the legend. Through-
out the whole tragedy Hamlet does not do what he
might wish to do, but what is needed for the author's
plans: now he is frightened by his father's ghost
and now he begins to chaff it, calling it 'old mole';
now he loves Ophelia, now he teases her, and so on.
There is no possibility of finding any explanation
of Hamlet's actions and speeches, and therefore
no possibility of attributing any character to him.

But as it is accepted that Shakespeare, the genius,
could write nothing bad, learned men devote all
the power of their minds to discovering extra-
ordinary beauties in what is an obvious and glaring
defect — particularly obvious in Hamlet — namely,
that the chief person in the play has no character
at all. And, lo and behold, profound critics an-
nounce that in this drama, in the person of Hamlet,
a perfectly new and profound character is most
powerfully presented: consisting in this, that the
person has no character; and that in this absence
of character lies an achievement of genius — the
creation of a profound character! And having
decided this, the learned critics write volumes upon
volumes, until the laudations and explanations of
the grandeur and importance of depicting the
character of a man without a character fill whole
libraries. It is true that some critics timidly express
the thought that there is something strange about
this person, and that Hamlet is an unsolved riddle ;
but no one ventures to say, as in Hans Andersen's
story, that the king is naked; that it is clear as day
that Shakespeare was unable, and did not even
wish, to give Hamlet any character and did not
even understand that this was necessary! And

352 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

learned critics continue to study and praise this
enigmatical production, which reminds one of the
famous inscribed stone found by Pickwick at a
cottage doorstep — which divided the scientific
world into two hostile camps.

So that neither the character of Lear, nor of
Othello, nor of Falstaff, and still less of Hamlet,
at all confirms the existing opinion that Shake-
speare's strength lies in the delineation of character.

If in Shakespeare's plays some figures are met
with that have characteristic traits (mostly secon-
dary figures such as Polonius in Hamlet, and Portia
in The Merchant of Venice] , these few life-like figures
— among the five hundred or more secondary
figures, and with the complete absence of character
in the principal figures — are far from proving that
the excellence of Shakespeare's dramas lies in the
presentation of character.

That a great mastery in the presentation of
character is attributed to Shakespeare arises from
his really possessing a peculiarity which when
helped out by the play of good actors may appear
to superficial observers to be a capacity to manage
scenes in which a movement of feeling is expressed.
However arbitrary the positions in which he puts
his characters, however unnatural to them the
language he makes them speak, however lacking in
individuality they may be, the movement of feeling
itself, its increase and change and the combination
of many contrary feelings, are often expressed
correctly and powerfully in some of Shakespeare's
scenes^ And this when performed by good actors
evokes, if but for a while, sympathy for the persons
represented.

Shakespeare, himself an actor and a clever man,
knew not only by speeches, but by exclamations,
gestures, and the repetition of words, how to

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 353

express the state of mind and changes of feeling
occurring in the persons represented. So that in
many places Shakespeare's characters instead of
speaking, merely exclaim, or weep, or in the midst
of a monologue indicate the pain of their position
by gesture (as when Lear asks to have a button
undone), or at a moment of strong excitement they
repeat a question several times and cause a word
to be repeated which strikes them, as is done by
Othello, Macduff, Cleopatra, and others. Similar
clever methods of expressing a movement of
feeling — giving good actors a chance to show their
powers — have often been taken by many critics
for the expression of character. But however
strongly the play of feeling may be expressed in one
scene, a single scene cannot give the character of
a person when after the appropriate exclamations
or gesture that person begins to talk lengthily not
in a natural manner proper to him but according
to the author's whim — saying things unnecessary
and not in harmony with his character.

V

'Well, but the profound utterances and sayings
delivered by Shakespeare's characters?' Shake-
speare's eulogists will exclaim. 'Lear's monologue
on punishment, Kent's on vengeance, Edgar's on
his former life, Gloucester's reflections on the per-
versity of fate, and in other dramas the famous
monologues of Hamlet, Antony, and others?'

Thoughts and sayings may be appreciated, I
reply, in prose works, in essays, in collections of
aphorisms, but not in artistic dramatic works the
aim of which is to elicit sympathy with what is
represented. And therefore the monologues and
sayings of Shakespeare even if they contained many
very profound and fresh thoughts, which is not

459

354 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAVA

the case, cannot constitute the excellence of an
artistic and poetic work. On the contrary, these
speeches, uttered in unnatural conditions, can only
spoil artistic works.

An artistic poetic work, especially a drama,
should first of all evoke in reader or spectator the
illusion that what the persons represented are
living through and experiencing is being lived
through and experienced by himself. And for this
purpose it is not more important for the dramatist
to know precisely what he should make his acting
characters do and say, than it is to know what he
should not make them do and say, so as not to
infringe the reader's or spectator's illusion. How-
ever eloquent and profound they may be, speeches
put into the mouths of acting characters, if they
are superfluous and do not accord with the situa-
tion and the characters, infringe the main condi-
tion of dramatic work — the illusion causing the
reader or spectator to experience the feelings of the
persons represented. One may without infringing
the illusion leave much unsaid: the reader or
spectator will himself supply what is needed, and
sometimes as a result of this his illusion is even
increased; but to say what is superfluous is like
jerking and scattering a statue made up of small
pieces, or taking the lamp out of a magic lantern.
The reader's or spectator's attention is distracted,
the reader sees the author, the spectator sees the
actor, the illusion is lost, and to recreate it is some-
times impossible. And therefore without a sense
of proportion there cannot be an artist, especially
a dramatist. And Shakespeare is entirely devoid of
this feeling.

Shakespeare's characters continually do and say
what is not merely unnatural to them but quite
unnecessary. I will not cite examples of this, for

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA ^55

I think that a man who does not himself perceive this
striking defect in all Shakespeare's dramas will not
be convinced by any possible examples or proofs.
It is sufficient to read King Lear alone, with the
madness, the murders, the plucking out of eyes,
Gloucester's jump, the poisonings, and the tor-
rents of abuse — not to mention Pericles, A Winter's
Tale, or The Tempest — to convince oneself of this.
Only a man quite devoid of the sense of proportion
and taste could produce the types of Titus Androni-
cus and Troilus and Cressida, and so pitilessly distort
the old drama of King Leir.

Gervinus tries to prove that Shakespeare possessed
a feeling of beauty, Schonheitssinn, but all Ger-
vinus's proofs only show that he himself, Gervinus,
completely lacked it. In Shakespeare everything
is exaggerated: the actions are exaggerated, so are
their consequences, the speeches of the characters
are exaggerated, and therefore at every step the
possibility of artistic impression is infringed.

Whatever people may say, however they may
be enraptured by Shakespeare's works, whatever
merits they may attribute to them, it is certain that
he was not an artist and that his works are not
artistic productions. Without a sense of proportion
there never was or could be an artist, just as with-
out a sense of rhythm there cannot be a musician.

» And Shakespeare may be anything you like — only

.not an artist.

'But one must not forget the times in which
Shakespeare wrote,' say his laudators. 'It was a
time of cruel and coarse manners, a time of the
then fashionable euphuism, that is, an artificial
manner of speech — a time of forms of life strange
to us, and therefore to judge Shakespeare one must
keep in view the times when he wrote. In Homer,
as in Shakespeare, there is much that is strange

356 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

to us, but this does not prevent our valuing the
beauties of Homer,' say the laudators. But when
one compares Shakespeare with Homer, as Ger-
vinus does, the infinite distance separating true
poetry from its imitation emerges with special
vividness. However distant Homer is from us we
can without the slightest effort transport ourselves
into the life he describes. And we are thus trans-
ported chiefly because, however alien to us may
be the events Homer describes, he believes in what
he says and speaks seriously of what he is describing,
and therefore he never exaggerates and the sense
of measure never deserts him. And therefore it
happens that, not to speak of the wonderfully dis-
tinct, life-like, and excellent characters of Achilles,
Hector, Priam, Odysseus, and the eternally touch-
ing scenes of Hector's farewell, of Priam's embassy,
of the return of Odysseus, and so forth, the whole
of the Iliad and still more the Odyssey, is as naturally
close to us all as if we had lived and were now living
among the gods and heroes. But it is not so with
Shakespeare. From his first words exaggeration
is seen: exaggeration of events, exaggeration of
feeling, and exaggeration of expression. It is at
once evident that he does not believe in what he is
saying, that he has no need to say it, that he is
inventing the occurrences he describes, is indiffer-
ent to his characters and has devised them merely
for the stage, and therefore makes them do and
say what may strike his public; and so we do not
believe either in the events or in the actions, or in
the sufferings of his characters. Nothing so clearly
shows the complete absence of aesthetic feeling in
Shakespeare as a comparison between him and
Homer. The works which we call the works of
Homer are artistic, poetic, original works, lived
through by their author or authors.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 357

But Shakespeare's works are compositions de-
vised for a particular purpose, and having absolutely
nothing in common with art or poetry.

VI

But perhaps the loftiness of Shakespeare's con-
ception of life is such that, even though he does not
satisfy the demands of aesthetics, he discloses to us
so new and important a view of life that in con-
sideration of its value all his artistic defects become
unnoticeable. This is indeed what some laudators
of Shakespeare say. Gervinus plainly says that
besides Shakespeare's significance in the sphere of
dramatic poetry, in which in his opinion he is the
equal of 'Homer in the sphere of the epic ; Shake-
speare, being the greatest judge of the human soul,
is a teacher of most indisputable ethical authority,
and the most select leader in the world and in life'.

In what then does this indubitable authority of
the most select teacher in the world and in life
consist? Gervinus devotes the concluding chapter
of his second volume (some fifty pages) to an
explanation of this.

The ethical authority of this supreme teacher of
life, in the opinion of Gervinus, consists in this:
'Shakespeare's moral view starts from the simple
point that man is born with powers of activity,'
and therefore, first of all, says Gervinus, Shake-
speare regarded it as 'an obligation to use our
inherent power of action'. (As if it were possible
for man not to act!)1

'Die tatkrafiigen Manner, Fortinbras, Bolingbrokc,
Alcibiades, Octavius spielen hier die gegensdtzlichen
Rollen gegen die verschiedenen Tatlosen; nicht ihre

k This and the quotations in English that follow are taken
from Shakespeare's Commentaries, by Dr. G. G. Gervinus,
translated by F. G. Bennett, London, 1877. — L. T.

358 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

Charaktere verdienen ihnen alien ihr Gluck und Gedeihen
etwa durch eine grosse Ueberlegenheit ihie Natur, sondern
trotz ihrer geringern Anlage stellt nch ihre Tatkraft an
sich uber die Untatigkeit der Anderen hinaus, gleichviel
aus wie schbner Quelle diese Passivitat, aus wie schlechter
jene Tatigkeit fliesse . " *

That is to say, Gervinus informs us, that active
people like Fortinbras, Bolingbroke, Alcibiades,
and Octavius are contrasted by Shakespeare with
various characters who do not display energetic
activity. And, according to Shakespeare, happiness
and success are attained by people who possess this
active character, not at all as a result of their
superiority of nature. On the contrary, in spite of
their inferior talents their energy in itself always
gives them the advantage over the inactive people,
regardless of whether their inactivity results from
excellent impulses, or the activity of the others from
base ones. Activity is good, inactivity is evil.
Activity transforms evil into good, says Shake-
speare, according to Gervinus. 'Shakespeare pre-
fers the principle of Alexander to that of Diogenes,5
says Gervinus. In other vv ords, according to him,
Shakespeare prefers death and murder from ambi-
tion, to self-restraint and wisdom.2

According to Gervinus, Shakespeare considers
that humanity should not set itself ideals, but that
all that is necessary is healthy activity, and a golden
mean in everything. Indeed Shakespeare is so
imbued with this wise moderation that, in the
words of Gervinus, he even allows himself to deny
Christian morality which makes exaggerated de-

1 Shakespeare, von G. G. Gervinus, Leipzig, 1872, vol. ii,
PP- 550-1-— L. T.

2 Tolstoy's essay Non-Acting deals with a controversy that
occurred in 1893 between Zola and Dumas. In it Tohtoy
controverts the opinion that activity in itself, lacking moral
guidance, is beneficial. — A. M.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 359

mands on human nature. 'How thoroughly pene-
trated Shakespeare was with this principle of wise
moderation', says Gervinus, 'is shown perhaps most
strongly in this, that he ventured even to oppose
Christian laws which demand an overstraining of
human nature; for he did not approve of the limits
of duty being extended beyond the intention of
nature. He taught therefore the wise and human
medium between the Christian and heathen pre-
cepts' (p. 917) — a reasonable mean, natural to
man, between Christian and pagan injunctions —
on the one hand love of one's enemies, and on the
other hatred of them !

'That it is possible to do too much in good things
is an express doctrine of Shakespeare, both in
word and example. . . . Thus excessive liberality
ruins Timon, whilst moderate generosity keeps
Antonio in honour; the genuine ambition which
makes Henry V great overthrows Percy, in whom
it rises too high. Exaggerated virtue brings Angelo
to ruin; and when in those near him the excess
of punishment proves harmful and cannot hinder
sin, then mercy, the most Godlike gift that man
possesses, is also exhibited in its excess as the
producer of sin.'

Shakespeare, says Gervinus, taught that one may
do too much good. 'He teaches', says Gervinus, 'that
morality, like politics, is a matter so complicated
with relations, conditions of life, and motives, that
it is impossible to bring it to final principles9
(p. 918).

'In Shakespeare's opinion (and here also he is
one with Bacon and Aristotle) there is no positive
law of religion or morals which could form a rule
of moral action in precepts ever binding and
suitable for all cases.'

Gervinus most clearly expresses Shakespeare's

360 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

whole moral theory by saying that Shakespeare
does not write for those classes for whom definite
religious principles and laws are suitable (that is
to say, for nine hundred and ninety-nine people
out of every thousand), but for the cultivated, who
have made their own a healthy tact in life and such
an instinctive feeling as, united with conscience,
reason, and will, can direct them to worthy aims
of life. But even for these fortunate ones, this
teaching may be dangerous if it is taken incom-
pletely. It must be taken whole. 'There are classes',
says Gervinus, 'whose morality is best provided for
by the positive letter of religion and law ; but for
such as these Shakespeare's writings are in them-
selves inaccessible; they are only readable and
comprehensible to the cultivated, of whom it can
be required that they should appropriate to them-
selves the healthy measure of life, and that self-
reliance in which the guiding and inherent powers
of conscience and reason, united with the will, are,
when consciously apprehended, worthy aims of
life' (p. 919). 'But even for the cultivated also,
Shakespeare's doctrine may not always be without
danger. . . . The condition on which his doctrine
is entirely harmless is this, that it should be fully
and completely received and without any ex-
purging and separating. Then it is not only without
danger, but it is also more unmistakable and more
infallible, and therefore more worthy of our confi-
dence, than any system of morality can be.' (p. 919.)
And in order to accept it all, one should under-
stand that according to his teaching it is insane
and harmful for an individual to rise against or
'disregard the bonds of religion and the state'
(p. 92 1 ) . For Shakespeare would abhor a free and
independent personality who strong in spirit should
oppose any law in politics or morals and should

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 361

disregard the union of the state and religion 'which
has kept society together for centuries' (p. 921).
'For in his opinion the practical wisdom of man
should have no higher aim than to carry into
society the utmost possible nature and freedom,
but for that very reason, and that he might main-
tain sacred and inviolable the natural laws of
society, he would respect existing forms, yet at the
same time penetrate into their rational substance
with sound criticism, not forgetting nature in
civilization, nor, equally, civilization in nature.'
Property, the family, the state, are sacred. But
the aspiration to recognize the equality of man is
insane. 'Its realization would bring the greatest
harm to humanity' (p. 925).

'No man has fought more strongly against rank
and class prejudices than Shakespeare, but how
could his liberal principles have been pleased with
the doctrines of those who would have done away
with the prejudices of the rich and cultivated only
to replace them by the interests and prejudices of
the poor and uncultivated? How would this man,
who draws us so eloquently to the course of honour,
have approved, if in annulling rank, degrees of
merit, distinction, we extinguish every impulse to
greatness, and by the removal of all degrees, "shake
the ladder to all high designs"? If indeed no
surreptitious honour and false power were longer
to oppress mankind, how would the poet have
acknowledged the most fearful force of all, the
power of barbarity? In consequence of these
modern doctrines of equality he would have appre-
hended that everything would resolve itself into
power; or if this were not the final lot which
awaited mankind from these aspirations after
equality, if love between nationalities, and endless
peace, were not that "nothing" of impossibility, as

362 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

Alonso expresses it in the Tempest, but could be
an actual fruit of these efforts after equality, then
the poet would have believed that with this time
the old age and decrepitude of the world had
arrived, in which it were worthless for the active
to live' (p. 925).

Such is Shakespeare's view of life as explained
by his greatest exponent and admirer. Another
of the recent laudators of Shakespeare, Brandes,
adds the following :

'No one, of course, can preserve his life quite
pure from injustice, from deception, and from
doing harm to others, but injustice and deception
are not always vices and even the harm done to
other people is not always a vice: it is often only
a necessity, a legitimate weapon, a right. At
bottom, Shakespeare had always held that there
were no such things as unconditional duties and
absolute prohibitions. He had never, for example,
questioned Hamlet's right to kill the King, scarcely
even his right to run his sword through Polonius.
Nevertheless he had hitherto been unable to con-
quer a feeling of indignation and disgust when he
saw around him nothing but breaches of the
simplest moral laws. Now, on the other hand, the
dim divinations of his earlier years crystallized in
his mind into a coherent body of thought: no
commandment is unconditional; it is not in the
observance or non-observance of an external fiat
that the merits of an action, to say nothing of
a character, consists : everything depends upon the
volitional substance into which the individual, as
a responsible agent, transmits the formal imperative
at the moment of decision.'1

1 William Shakespeare, by Georges Brandes, translated by
William Archer and Miss Morison, London, 1898, p. 921. —
L. T.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 363

In other words Shakespeare now sees clearly that
the morality of the aim is the only true, the only
possible one; so that, according to Brandes, Shake-
speare's fundamental principle, for which he is
extolled, is that the end justifies the means. Action at
all costs, the absence of all ideals, moderation in
everything, the maintenance of established forms
of life, and the maxim that 'the end justifies the
means'.

If one adds to this a Chauvinistic English
patriotism, expressed in all his historical plays: a
patriotism according to which the English throne
is something sacred, the English always defeat the
French, slaughtering thousands and losing only
scores, Jeanne d'Arc is a witch, Hector and all the
Trojans — from whom the English are descended —
are heroes, while the Greeks are cowards and
traitors, and so forth : this is the view of life of the
wisest teacher of life according to his greatest
admirer. And anyone who reads attentively the
works of Shakespeare cannot but acknowledge that
the attribution of this view of life to Shakespeare
by those who praise him is perfectly correct.

The value of every poetical work depends on
three qualities:

1. The content of the work: the more important
the content, that is to say the more important it is
for the life of man, the greater is the work.

2. The external beauty achieved by the technical
methods proper to the particular kind of art. Thus
in dramatic art the technical method will be: that
the characters should have a true individuality of
their own, a natural and at the same time a touch-
ing plot, a correct presentation on the stage of
the manifestation and development of feelings, and
a sense of proportion in all that is presented.

3. Sincerity, that is to say that the author should

364 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

himself vividly feel what he expresses. Without this
condition there can be no work of art, as the
essence of art consists in the infection of the con-
templator of a work by the author's feeling. If
the author has not felt what he is expressing, the
recipient cannot become infected by the author's
feeling, he does not experience any feeling, and
the production cannot be classed as a work of art.

The content of Shakespeare's plays, as is seen by
the explanations of his greatest admirers, is the
lowest, most vulgar view of life which regards the
external elevation of the great ones of the earth
as a genuine superiority; despises the crowd, that
is to say, the working classes; and repudiates not
only religious, but even any humanitarian, efforts
directed towards the alteration of the existing order
of society.

The second condition is also absent in Shake-
speare except in his handling of scenes in which a
movement of feelings is expressed. There is in his
works a lack of naturalness in the situations, the
characters lack individuality of speech, and a sense
of proportion is also wanting, without which such
works cannot be artistic.

The third and chief condition — sincerity — is
totally absent in all Shakespeare's works. One sees
in all of them an intentional artificiality; it is
obvious that he is not in earnest but is playing
with words.

VII

The works of Shakespeare do not meet the de-
mands of every art, and, besides that, their tendency
is very low and immoral. What then is the meaning
of the immense fame these works have enjoyed for
more than a hundred years?

To reply to this question seems the more difficult,

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 365

because if the works of Shakespeare had any kind
of excellence the achievement which has produced
the exaggerated praise lavished upon them would
be at least to some extent intelligible. But here
two extremes meet : works which are beneath criti-
cism, insignificant, empty, and immoral — meet in-
sensate, universal laudation, that proclaims these
works to be above everything that has ever been
produced by man.

How is this to be explained?

Many times during rny life I have had occasion
to discuss Shakespeare with his admirers, not only
with people little sensitive to poetry but also with
those who felt poetic beauty keenly, such as Tur-
genev, Fct,1 and others, and each time I have
encountered one and the same attitude towards my
disagreement with the laudation of Shakespeare.

I was not answered when I pointed out Shake-
speare's defects; they only pitied me for my want
of comprehension and urged on me the necessity
of acknowledging the extraordinary supernatural
grandeur of Shakespeare. They did not explain
to me in what the beauties of Shakespeare consist,
but were merely indefinitely and exaggeratedly
enthusiastic about the whole of Shakespeare, ex-
tolling some favourite passages: the undoing of
Lear's button, FalstafFs lying, Lady Macbeth's
spot which would not wash out, Hamlet's address
to the ghost of his father, the 'forty thousand
brothers', 'none does offend, none, I say none', and
so forth.

'Open Shakespeare', I used to say to these
admirers of his, 'where you will or as may chance,
and you will see that you will never find ten con-
secutive lines that are comprehensible, natural,

1 A Russian poet of much delicacy of feeling, for many years
a great friend of Tolst6y's. — A. M.

366 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

characteristic of the person who utters them, and
productive of an artistic impression.' (Anyone may
make this experiment.) And the laudators of
Shakespeare opened pages in Shakespeare's dramas
by chance, or at their own choice, and without
paying any attention to the reasons I adduced as
to why the ten lines selected did not meet the most
elementary demands of aesthetics or good sense,
praised the very things that appeared to me
absurd, unintelligible, and inartistic.

So that in general in response to my endeavours
to obtain from the worshippers of Shakespeare an
explanation of his greatness, I encountered pre-
cisely the attitude I have usually met with, and
still meet with, from the defenders of any dogmas
accepted not on the basis of reason but on mere
credulity. And it was just this attitude of the
laudators of Shakespeare — an attitude which may
be met with in all the indefinite, misty articles about
him, and in conversations — that gave me the key
to an understanding of the cause of Shakespeare's
fame. There is only one explanation of this
astonishing phenomenon: it is one of those epi-
demic suggestions to which people always have
been, and are, liable. Such irrational suggestion
has always existed, and still exists in all spheres
of life. The medieval Crusades, which influenced
not only adults but children, are glaring examples
of such suggestion, considerable in scope and
deceptiveness, and there have been many other
epidemic suggestions astonishing in their senseless-
ness, such as the belief in witches, in the utility of
torture for the discovery of truth, the search for
the elixir of life, for the philosopher's stone, and
the passion for tulips valued at several thousand
guilders a bulb, which overran Holland. There
always have been and always are such irrational

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 367

suggestions in all spheres of human life — religious,
philosophic, economic, scientific, artistic, and in
literature generally, and people only see clearly
the insanity of such suggestions after they are freed
from them. But as long as they are under their
influence these suggestions appear to them such
indubitable truths that they do not consider it
necessary or possible to reason about them. Since
the development of the printing-press these epi-
demics have become particularly striking.

Since the development of the press it has come
about that as soon as something obtains a special
significance from accidental circumstances, the
organs of the press immediately announce this
significance. And as soon as the press has put
forward the importance of the matter, the public
directs yet more attention to it. The hypnotiza-
tion of the public incites the press to regard the
thing more attentively and in greater detail. The
interest of the public is still further increased, and
the organs of the press, competing one with another,
respond to the public demand.

The public becomes yet more interested, and the
press attributes yet more importance to the matter;
so that this importance, growing ever greater and
greater like a snowball, obtains a quite unnatural
appreciation, and this appreciation, exaggerated
even to absurdity, maintains itself as long as the
outlook on life of the leaders of the press and of
the public remains the same. There are in our day
innumerable examples of such a misunderstanding
of the importance of the most insignificant occur-
rences, occasioned by the mutual reaction of press
and public. A striking example of this was the
excitement which seized the whole world over the
Dreyfus affair. A suspicion arose that some captain
on the French staff had been guilty of treason.

368 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

Whether because this captain was a Jew, or from
some special internal party disagreements in French
society, this event, which resembled others that
continually occur without arousing anyone's atten-
tion and without interesting the whole world or
even the French military, was given a somewhat
prominent position by the press. The public paid
attention to it. The organs of the press, vying with
one another, began to describe, to analyse, to
discuss the event, the public became yet more
interested, the press responded to the demands of
the public and the snowball began to grow and
grow, and grew before our eyes to such an extent
that there was not a family which had not its dis-
putes about Vaffain\ So that Caran d'Ache's cari-
cature, which depicted first a peaceful family that
had decided not to discuss the Dreyfus affair any
more, and then the same family represented as
angry furies fighting one another, quite correctly
depicted the relation of the whole reading world
to the Dreyfus question. Men of other nationalities
who could not have any real interest in the question
whether a French officer had or had not been a
traitor — men moreover who could not know how
the affair was going — all divided for or against
Dreyfus, some asserting his guilt with assurance,
others denying it with equal certainty.

It was only after some years that people began
to awaken from the 'suggestion' and to understand
that they could not possibly know whether he was
guilty or innocent, and that each one of them had
a thousand matters nearer and more interesting
to him than the Dreyfus affair. Such infatuations
occur in all spheres, but they are specially notice-
able in the sphere of literature, for the press naturally
occupies itself most of all with the affairs of the
press, and these are particularly powerful in our

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 369

day when the press has obtained such an unnatural
development. It continually happens that people
suddenly begin to devote exaggerated praise to
some very insignificant works, and then, if these
works do not correspond to the prevailing view
of life, suddenly become perfectly indifferent to
them and forget both the works themselves and
their own previous attitude towards them.

So within my recollection, in the eighteen-forties,
there occurred in the artistic sphere the exaltation
and laudation of Eugene Sue and George Sand;
in the social sphere, of Fourier; in the philosophic
sphere, of Comte and Hegel; and in the scientific
sphere, of Darwin.

Sue is quite forgotten, George Sand is being
forgotten and replaced by the writings of Zola
and the Decadents — Baudelaire, Verlainc, Maeter-
linck and others. Fourier, with his phalansteries,
is quite forgotten, and has been replaced by Karl
Marx. Hegel, who justified the existing order, and
Comte, who denied the necessity of religious
activity in humanity, and Darwin, with his law of
struggle for existence, still maintain their places,
but are beginning to be neglected and replaced by
the teachings of Nietzsche, which though perfectly
absurd, unthought-out, obscure, and bad in their
content, correspond better to the present-day out-
look on life. Thus it sometimes happens that artistic,
philosophic, and literary crazes in general, arise,
fall rapidly, and are forgotten.

But it also happens that such crazes, having
arisen in consequence of special causes accidently
favouring their establishment, correspond so well
to the view of life diffused in society and especially
in literary circles, that they maintain their place
tor a very long time. Even in Roman times it
was remarked that books have their fate, and often

370 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

a very strange one: failure in spite of high qualities,
and enormous undeserved success in spite of
insignificance. And a proverb was made: Pro
captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli, that is, that the
fate of books depends on the understanding of
those who read them. Such was the correspondence
of Shakespeare's work to the view of life of the
people among whom his fame arose. And this fame
has been maintained, and is still maintained, because
the works of Shakespeare continue to correspond to
the view of life of those who maintain this fame.

Until the end of the i8th century Shakespeare not
only had no particular fame in England, but was
less esteemed than his contemporaries : Ben Jonson,
Fletcher, Beaumont, and others. His fame began
in Germany, and from there passed to England.
This happened for the following reason :

Art, especially dramatic art which demands for
its realization extensive preparations, expenditure,
and labour, was always religious, that is to say, its
object was to evoke in man a clearer conception
of that relation of man to God attained at the time
by the advanced members of the society in which
the art was produced.

So it should be by the nature of the case, and
so it always had been among all nations: among
the Egyptians, Hindus, Chinese, and Greeks —
from the earliest time that we have knowledge of
the life of man. And it has always happened that
with the coarsening of religious forms art diverged
more and more from this original aim (which had
caused it to be recognized as an important matter
— almost an act of worship), and instead of religious
aims it adopted worldly aims for the satisfaction of
the demands of the crowd, or of the great ones of
the earth, that is to say, aims of recreation and
amusement.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 371

This deflexion of art from its true and high
vocation occurred everywhere, and it occurred in
Christendom.

The first manifestation of Christian art was in
the worship of God in the temples : the performance
of Mass and, in general, of the liturgy. When in
course of time the forms of this art of divine wor-
ship became insufficient, the Mysteries were pro-
duced, depicting those events regarded as most
important in the Christian religious view of life.
Afterwards, when in the I3th and I4th centuries
the centre of gravity of Christian teaching was
more and more transferred from the worship of
Jesus as God, to the explanation of his teaching and
its fulfilment, the form of the Mysteries, which
depicted external Christian events, became in-
sufficient and new forms were demanded; and
as an expression of this tendency appeared the
Moralities, dramatic representations in which the
characters personified the Christian virtues and
the opposite vices.

But allegories by their very nature, as art of a
lower order, could not replace the former religious
drama, and no new form of dramatic art corre-
sponding to the conception of Christianity as a
teaching of life had yet been found. And dramatic
art, lacking a religious basis, began in all Christian
countries more and more to deviate from its pur-
pose, and instead of a service of God became a
service of the crowd (I mean by 'crowd' not merely
the common people, but the majority of immoral
or non-moral people indifferent to the higher
problems of human life) . This deviation was helped
on by the fact that just at that time the Greek
thinkers, poets, and dramatists, with whom the
Christian world had not hitherto been acquainted,
were rediscovered and favourably accepted. And

372 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

therefore, not having yet had time to work out for
themselves a clear and satisfactory form of drama-
tic art suitable to the new conception entertained
of Christianity as a teaching of life, and at the
same time recognizing the previous Mysteries and
Moralities as insufficient, the writers of the I5th
and 1 6th centuries, in their search for a new form,
began to imitate the newly discovered Greek
models, which were attractive by their elegance and
novelty. And as it was chiefly the great ones of the
earth who could avail themselves of the drama —
the kings, princes, and courtiers — the least re-
ligious people, not merely quite indifferent to ques-
tions of religion but for the most part thoroughly
depraved — it followed that to satisfy the demands
of its public the drama of the i5th, i6th, and iyth
centuries was chiefly a spectacle intended for
depraved kings and the upper classes. Such was
the drama of Spain, England, Italy, and France.

The plays of that time, chiefly composed in all
these countries according to ancient Greek models,
from poems, legends, and biographies, naturally
reflected the national characters. In Italy come-
dies with amusing scenes and characters were
chiefly elaborated. In Spain the worldly drama
flourished, with complicated plots and ancient his-
torical heroes. The peculiarity of English drama
was the coarse effect produced by murders, execu-
tions, and battles on the stage, and popular comic
interludes. Neither the Italian, nor the Spanish,
nor the English drama had European fame, and
each of them enjoyed success only in its own
country. General fame, thanks to the elegance of
its language and the talent of its writers, was
enjoyed only by the French drama, which was dis-
tinguished by strict adherence to the Greek models,
and especially to the law of the three Unities.

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 373

So matters continued till the end of the i8th
century, but at the end of that century this is
what happened: in Germany, which lacked even
mediocre dramatists (though there had been a weak
and little known writer, Hans Sachs), all educated
people, including Frederick the Great, bowed
down before the French pseudo-classical drama.
And yet at that very time there appeared in Ger-
many a circle of educated and talented writers
and poets who, feeling the falsity and coldness of
the French drama, sought a newer and freer
dramatic form. The members of this group, like
all the upper classes of the Christian wrorld at that
time, wrere under the charm and influence of the
Greek classics and, being utterly indifferent to
religious questions, thought that if the Greek drama
depicting the calamities, sufferings, and struggles
of its heroes supplied the best model for the drama,
then such representation of the sufferings and
struggles of heroes would also be a sufficient sub-
ject for drama in the Christian world, if only one
rejected the narrow demands of pseudo-classicism.
These men, not understanding that the sufferings
and strife of their heroes had a religious significance
for the Greeks, imagined that it was only necessary
to reject the inconvenient law of the three Unities,
and the representation of various incidents in the
lives of historic personages, and of strong human
passions in general, would afford a sufficient basis
for the drama without its containing any religious
element corresponding to the beliefs of their own
time. Just such a drama existed at that time among
the kindred English people, and the Germans,
becoming acquainted with it, decided that just
such should be the drama of the new period.

The masterly development of the scenes which
constitutes Shakespeare's speciality caused them

374 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

to select Shakespeare's dramas from among all
other English plays, which were not in the least
inferior, but often superior, to Shakespeare's.

At the head of the circle stood Goethe, who was
then the dictator of public opinion on aesthetic
questions. And he it was who — partly from a wish
to destroy the fascination of the false French art,
partly from a wish to give freer scope to his own
dramatic activity, but chiefly because his view of
life agreed with Shakespeare's — acclaimed Shake-
speare a great poet. When that falsehood had been
proclaimed on Goethe's authority, all those aes-
thetic critics who did not understand art threw
themselves upon it like crows upon carrion, and
began to search Shakespeare for non-existent
beauties and to extol them. These men, German
aesthetic critics — for the most part utterly devoid
of aesthetic feeling, ignorant of that simple direct
artistic impression which for men with a feeling
for art clearly distinguishes artistic impression from
all other, but believing the authority that had pro-
claimed Shakespeare as a great poet — began to
belaud the whole of Shakespeare indiscriminately,
selecting passages especially which struck them by
their effects or expressed thoughts corresponding
to their own view of life, imagining that such effects
and such thoughts constitute the essence of what
is called art.

These men acted as blind men would if they tried
by touch to select diamonds out of a heap of stones
they fingered. As the blind man, long sorting out
the many little stones, could finally come to no
other conclusion than that all the stones were
precious and the smoothest were especially pre-
cious, so the aesthetic critics, deprived of artistic
feeling, could come to no other result about Shake-
speare. To make their praise of the whole of

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 375

Shakespeare more convincing they composed an
aesthetic theory, according to which a definite
religious view of life is not at all necessary for the
creation of works of art in general or for the drama
in particular; that for the inner content of a play
it is quite enough to depict passions and human
characters; that not only is no religious illumina-
tion of the matter presented required., but that art
ought to be objective, that is to say, it should depict
occurrences quite independently of any valuation
of what is good or bad. And as this theory was
educed from Shakespeare, it naturally happened
that the works of Shakespeare corresponded to this
theory and were therefore the height of perfection.

And these were the people chiefly responsible
for Shakespeare's fame.

Chiefly in consequence of their writings, that
interaction of writers and the public came about
which found expression, and still finds expression,
in the insensate laudation of Shakespeare without
any rational basis. These aesthetic critics wrote
profound treatises about Shakespeare (eleven
thousand volumes have been written about him,
and a whole science of Shakespearology has been
formulated) ; the public became more and more
interested, and the learned critics explained more
and more, that is to say, they added to the con-
fusion and laudation.

So that the first cause of Shakespeare's fame was
that the Germans wanted something freer and
more alive to oppose to the French drama of which
they were tired, and which was really dull and
cold. The second cause was that the young Ger-
man writers required a model for their own
dramas. The third and chief cause was the activity
of the learned and zealous aesthetic German critics
who lacked aesthetic feeling and formulated the

376 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

theory of objective art, that is to say, deliberately
repudiated the religious essence of the drama.

'But,' I shall be asked, 'what do you mean by the
words "religious essence of the drama"? Is not
what you demand for the drama religious in-
struction, didactics: what is called a tendency —
which is incompatible with true art?' By 'the
religious essence of art', I reply, I mean not an
external inculcation of any religious truth in
artistic guise, and not an allegorical representation
of those truths, but the expression of a definite
view of life corresponding to the highest religious
understanding of a given period : an outlook which,
serving as the impelling motive for the composition
of the drama, permeates the whole work though the
author be unconscious of it. So it has always been
with true art, and so it is with every true artist in
general and with dramatists especially. Hence, as
happened when the drama was a serious thing, and
as should be according to the essence of the matter,
he alone can write a drama who has something to
say to men — something highly important for them
— about man's relation to God, to the universe, to
all that is infinite and unending.

But when, thanks to the German theories about
objective art, an idea had been established that,
for drama, this is not wanted at all, then a writer
like Shakespeare — who in his own soul had not
formed religious convictions corresponding to his
period, and who had even no convictions at all,
but piled up in his plays all possible events,
horrors, fooleries, discussions, and effects — could
evidently be accepted as the greatest of dramatic
geniuses.

But all these are external reasons: the funda-
mental inner cause of Shakespeare's fame was, and
is, that his plays fitted pro captu lectoris, that is to

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 377

say, responded to the irreligious and immoral
attitude of the upper classes of our world.

VIII

A series of accidents brought it about that
Goethe at the beginning of the last century, being
the dictator of philosophic thought and aesthetic
laws, praised Shakespeare; the aesthetic critics
caught up that praise and began to write their
long foggy erudite articles, and the great European
public began to be enchanted by Shakespeare.
The critics, responding to this public interest,
laboriously vied with one another in writing more
and more articles about Shakespeare, and readers
and spectators were still further confirmed in their
enthusiasm, and Shakespeare's fame kept growing
and growing like a snowball, until in our time it
has attained a degree of insane laudation that
obviously rests on no other basis than suggestion.

'There is no one even approximately equal to
Shakespeare either among ancient or modern
writers.' 'Poetic truth is the most brilliant gem
in the crown of Shakespeare's service.' 'Shake-
speare is the greatest moralist of all times.' 'Shake-
speare displays such diversity and such objectivity
as place him beyond the limits of time and
nationality.' 'Shakespeare is the greatest genius
that has hitherto existed.5 'For the creation of
tragedies, comedies, historical plays, idylls, idyllic
comedies, aesthetic idylls, for representation itself,
as also for incidental verses, he is the only man.
He not only wields unlimited power over our
laughter and our tears, over all phases of passion,
humour, thought and observation, but he com-
mands an unlimited realm of imagination, full of
fancy of a terrifying and amazing character, and

378 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

he possesses penetration in the world of invention
and of reality, and over all this there reigns one
and the same truthfulness to character and to
nature, and the same spirit of humanity.'

'To Shakespeare the epithet of great applies
naturally; and if one adds that independently of his
greatness he has also become the reformer of all
literature, and moreover has expressed in his works
not only the phenomena of the life of his time, but
also from thoughts and views that in his day
existed only in germ has prophetically foreseen the
direction which the social spirit would take in the
future (of which we see an amazing example in
Hamlet) — one may say without hesitation that
Shakespeare was not only a great, but the greatest
of all poets that ever existed, and that in the sphere
of poetic creation the only rival that equals him
is life itself, which in his productions he depicted
with such perfection.'

The obvious exaggeration of this appraisement
is a most convincing proof that it is not the out-
come of sane thought, but of suggestion. The more
insignificant, the lower, the emptier, a pheno-
menon is, once it becomes the object of suggestion,
the more supernatural and exaggerated is the im-
portance attributed to it. The Pope is not only
holy, but most holy, and so forth. So Shakespeare
is not only a good writer, but the greatest genius,
the eternal teacher of mankind.

Suggestion is always a deceit, and every deceit
is an evil. And really the suggestion that Shake-
speare's works are great works of genius, presenting
the climax both of aesthetic and ethical perfec-
tion, has caused and is causing great injury to
men.

This injury is twofold: first, the fall of the drama
and the substitution of an empty immoral amuse-

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 379

ment for that important organ of progress, and
secondly, the direct degradation of men by pre-
senting them with false models for imitation.

The life of humanity only approaches perfection
by the elucidation of religious consciousness (the
only principle securely uniting men one with
another). The elucidation of the religious con-
sciousness of man is accomplished through all sides
of man's spiritual activity. One side of that activity
is art. One part of art, and almost the most im-
portant, is the drama.

And therefore the drama, to deserve the im-
portance attributed to it, should serve the elucida-
tion of religious consciousness. Such the drama
always was, and such it was in the Christian world.
But with the appearance of Protestantism in its
broadest sense — that is to say, the appearance of
a new understanding of Christianity as a teaching
of life — dramatic art did not find a form correspond-
ing to this new understanding of religion, and the
men of the Renaissance period were carried away
by the imitation of classical art. This was most
natural, but the attraction should have passed and
art should have found, as it is now beginning to
find, a new form corresponding to the altered
understanding of Christianity.

But the finding of this new form was hindered
by the teaching, which arose among German
writers at the end of the i8th and beginning of the
igth centuries, of the so-called objectivity of art —
that is to say, the indifference of art to good or evil
— together with an exaggerated praise of Shake-
speare's dramas, which partly corresponded to the
aesthetic theory of the Germans and partly served
as material for it. Had there not been this exag-
gerated praise of Shakespeare's dramas, accepted
as the most perfect models of drama, people of the

380 SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

1 8th and igth centuries, and of our own, would
have had to understand that the drama, to have
a right to exist and be regarded as a serious matter,
ought to serve, as always was and cannot but be
the case, the elucidation of religious consciousness.
And having understood this they would have
sought a new form of drama corresponding to
their religious perception.

But when it was decided that Shakespeare's
drama is the summit of perfection, and that people
ought to write as he did without any religious or
even any moral content — all the dramatists, imitat-
ing him, began to compose plays lacking content,
like the plays of Goethe, Schiller, Hugo, and,
among us Russians, Pushkin, and the historical
plays of Ostrovski, Alexey Tolstoy, and the in-
numerable other more or less well-known dramatic
works which fill all the theatres and are continually
composed by anyone to whom the thought and
desire to write plays occurs.

Only thanks to such a mean, petty, understand-
ing of the importance of the drama do there appear
among us that endless series of dramatic works
presenting the actions, situations, characters, and
moods of people, not only devoid of any spiritual
content but even lacking any human sense. And
let not the reader suppose that I exclude from this
estimate of contemporary drama the pieces I
myself have incidentally written for the theatre.
I recognize them, just like all the rest, to be lacking
in that religious content which should form the
basis of the future drama.

So that the drama, the most important sphere
of art, has become in our time merely an empty
and immoral amusement for the empty and im-
moral crowd. What is worst of all is that to the
art of the drama, which has fallen as low as it is

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 381

possible to fall, people continue to attribute an
elevated significance unnatural to it.

Dramatists, actors, theatrical managers, the
press — the latter most seriously publishing reports
of theatres, operas, and so forth — all feel assured
that they are doing something very useful and
important.

The drama in our time is like a great man fallen
to the lowest stage of degradation, who yet con-
tinues to pride himself on his past, of which nothing
now remains. And the public of our time is like
those who pitilessly get amusement out of this once
great man, now descended to the lowest depths.

Such is one harmful effect of the epidemic sug-
gestion of the greatness of Shakespeare. Another
harmful effect of that laudation is the setting up
of a false model for men's imitation.

If people now wrote of Shakespeare that, for his
time, he was a great writer, managed verse \\eli
enough, was a clever actor and a good stage-
manager, even if their valuation were inexact and
somewhat exaggerated, provided it was moderate,
people of the younger generations might remain
free from the Shakespearian influence. But no
young man can now remain free from this harmful
influence, for instead of the religious and moral
teachers of mankind being held up to him as
models of moral perfection, as soon as he enters
on life he is confronted first of all by Shakespeare,
who learned men have decided (and transmitted
from generation to generation as an irrefragable
truth) is the greatest of poets and the greatest of
life's teachers.

On reading or hearing Shakespeare the question
for a young man is no longer whether Shakespeare
is good or bad, but only to discover wherein lies
that extraordinary aesthetic and ethical beauty of

38a SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA

which he has received the suggestion from learned
men whom he respects, but which he neither sees
nor feels. And perverting his aesthetic and ethical
feeling, he tries to force himself to agree with the
prevailing opinion. He no longer trusts himself,
but trusts to what learned people whom he respects
have said (I myself have experienced all this).
Reading the critical analyses of the plays and the
extracts from books with explanatory commen-
taries, it begins to seem to him that he feels some-
thing like an artistic impression, and the longer
this continues the more is his aesthetic and ethical
feeling perverted. He already ceases to discriminate
independently and clearly between what is truly
artistic, and the artificial imitation of art.

But above all, having assimilated that immoral
view of life which permeates all Shakespeare's
works, he loses the capacity to distinguish between
good and evil. And the error of extolling an
insignificant, inartistic, and not only non-moral
but plainly immoral writer, accomplishes its per-
nicious work.

That is why I think that the sooner people
emancipate themselves from this false worship of
Shakespeare the better it will be: first because
people when they are freed from this falsehood will
come to understand that a drama which has no
religious basis is not only not an important or good
thing, as is now supposed, but is most trivial and
contemptible; and having understood this they will
have to search for and work out a new form of
modern drama — a drama which will serve for the
elucidation and confirmation in man of the highest
degree of religious consciousness; and secondly
because people, when themselves set free from this
hypnotic state, will understand that the insignifi-
cant and immoral works of Shakespeare and his

SHAKESPEARE AND THE DRAMA 383

imitators, aiming only at distracting and amusing
the spectators, cannot possibly serve to teach the
meaning of life, but that, as long as there is no
real religious drama, guidance for life must be
looked for from other sources.

WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

AJOUT a month ago I had a visit from two young
men, one of whom was wearing a cap and
peasant bast shoes, and the other a once fashion-
able black hat and torn boots.

I asked them who they were, and with uncon-
cealed pride they informed me that they were
workmen expelled from Moscow for taking part
in the armed rising. Passing our village they had
found employment as watchmen on an estate, but
had lived there less than a month. The day before
they came to see me they had been dismissed, the
owner charging them with attempting to persuade
the peasants to lay waste the estate. They denied
the charge with a smile, saying they had attempted
no persuasion but had merely gone into the village
of an evening and chatted with their fellows.

They had both read revolutionary literature,
particularly the bolder of the two, who had spark-
ling black eyes and white teeth and smiled a great
deal, and they both used foreign words such as
'orator',1 'proletariat', 'Social-Democrat', 'ex-
ploitation', and so on, in and out of place,

I asked them what they had read, and the darker
one replied with a smile that he had read various
pamphlets.

'Which?' I asked.

'All sorts. "Land and Liberty" for instance.'

I then asked them what they thought of such
pamphlets.

'They tell the real truth,' replied the dark
one.

'What is it you find so true in them?' I asked.

1 Meaning a stump orator for one of the political parties. —
A. M.

WHAT'S TO BE DONE? 385

'Why, that it has become impossible to go on
living as we do.'

'Why is it impossible?5

'Why? Because we have neither land nor work,
and the government throttles the people without
sense or reason.'

And interrupting one another, they began to tell
how people who had done nothing wrong were
flogged by Cossacks with their heavy whips, seized
haphazard by the police, and even shot in their
own houses.

On my saying that an armed rebellion was a
bad and irrational affair, the dark one smiled and
replied quietly: 'We are of a different opinion.'

When I spoke of the sin of murder and the law
of God they exchanged glances, and the darker
one shrugged his shoulders.

'Does the law of God say the proletariat is to
be exploited?5 he asked. 'People used to think so,
but now they know better, and it can't go on. . . .'

I brought them out some booklets, chiefly on
religious subjects. They glanced at the titles and
were evidently not pleased.

'Perhaps you don't care for them? If so, don't
take them.'

'Why not?5 said the darker one, and putting the
booklets into their blouses they took their leave.

Though I had not been reading the papers, I
knew what had been going on in Russia recently
from the talk of my family, from letters I had
received, and from accounts given by visitors; and
just because I had not read the papers I knew
particularly well of the amazing change that had
latterly taken place in the views held by our
society and by the people, a change amounting
to this, that whereas people formerly considered
the government to be necessary, now all except a

459 n

386 WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

very few looked upon its activity as criminal and
wrong and blamed the government alone for all
the disturbances. That opinion was shared by
professors, postal officials, authors, shopkeepers,
doctors, and workmen alike, and the feeling was
strengthened by the dissolution of the first Duma
and had reached its highest point as a result of the
cruel measures lately adopted by the government.

I knew this. But my talk with these two men
had a great effect on me. Like the shock which
suddenly turns freezing liquid into ice, it suddenly
turned a whole series of similar impressions I had
previously received into a definite and indubitable
conviction.

After my talk with them I saw clearly that all
the crimes the government is now committing in
order to crush the revolution not only fail to crush
it but inflame it all the more, and that if the
revolutionary movement appears for a time to die
down under the cruelties of the government, it is
not destroyed but merely temporarily hidden, and
will inevitably spring up again with new and in-
creased strength. The fire is now in such a state
that any contact with it can only increase its fierce-
ness. And it became clear to me that the only
thing that could help would be for the government
to cease any and every attempt to enforce its will,
to cease not only executing and arresting, but
all banishing, persecuting, and proscribing. Only
in that way could this horrible strife between
brutalized men be brought to an end.

It became perfectly clear to me that the only
means of stopping the horrors that are being com-
mitted, and the perversion of the people, was the
resignation by the government of its power. I was
convinced that that was the best thing the govern-
ment could do, but I was equally firmly convinced

WHAT 'S TO BE DONE? 387

that were I to make any such proposal it would be
received merely as an indication that I was quite
insane. And therefore, though it was perfectly
clear to me that the continuance of governmental
cruelty could only make things worse and not
better, I did not attempt to write or even to speak
about it.

Nearly a month has passed, and unfortunately
my supposition finds more and more confirmation.
There are more and more executions and more and
more murders and robberies. I know this both
from conversation and from chance glances at the
papers, and I know that the mood of the people
and of society has become more and more em-
bittered against the government.

When I was out riding a couple of days ago, a
young man wearing a pea-jacket and a curious
blue cap with a straight crown was driving in the
same direction in a peasant cart, and jumped off
his cart and came up to me.

He was a short man with a little red moustache
and an unhealthy complexion, and he had a clever,
harsh face and a dissatisfied expression.

He asked me for booklets, but this was evidently
an excuse for entering into conversation.

I asked him where he came from.

He was a peasant from a distant village, some
of the men of which had lately been imprisoned
and whose wives had been to see me.

It was a village I knew well and in which it had
fallen to my lot to administer the Charter of
Liberation,1 and I had always admired its parti-

1 The only official position Tolstdy ever held after he left
the army was that of 'Arbiter of the Peace* in 1861-2. In
that capacity it fell to his lot to regulate the relations between
the landlords and the newly emancipated serfs in his district.
—A.M.

388 WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

cularly bold and handsome peasants. Specially

talented pupils used to come to my school from that

village.

I asked him about the peasants who had been
sent to prison, and he told me — with the same
assurance and absence of doubt that I had recently
encountered in everyone, and the same full confi-
dence that the government alone is to blame — that
though they had done no wrong they had been
seized, beaten, and imprisoned.

Only with great difficulty could I get him to
explain what they were accused of.

It turned out that they were 'orators', and held
meetings at which they spoke of the necessity of
expropriating the land.

I said that the establishment of an equal right
for all to the use of the land cannot be established
by violence.

He did not agree.

'Why not?' said he. 'We only need to organize.'

'How will you organize?' I asked.

'That will be seen when the time comes.'

'Do you mean another armed rising?'

'It has become a painful necessity.'

I said (what I always say in such cases) that evil
cannot be conquered by evil, but only by refraining
from evil.

'But it has become impossible to live like that.
We have no work and no land. What's to become
of us?5 he asked, looking at me from under his
brows.

'I am old enough to be your grandfather/ I
replied, 'and I won't argue with you. But I will
say one thing to you, as to a young man beginning
life. If what the government is doing is bad, what
you are doing or preparing to do is equally bad.
As a young man whose habits are just forming you

WHAT 'S TO BE DONE? 389

should do one thing — live rightly, not sinning or
resisting the will of God.'

He shook his head with dissatisfaction, and said :

4 Every man has his own God. Millions of men
— millions of Gods.'

4 All the same,' I said, 'I advise you to cease
taking part in the revolution.'

4But what's to be done?5 he replied. 'We can't
go on enduring and enduring. What's to be
done?'

I felt that no good would come of our talk and
was about to ride away, but he stopped me.

'Won't you help me to subscribe for a news-
paper?' he asked.

I refused and rode away from him feeling sad.

He was not one of those unemployed factory
hands of whom thousands are now roaming about
Russia. He was a peasant agriculturist living in
a village, and there are not hundreds or thousands
but millions of such peasants. And the infection of
such a mood as his is spreading more and more.

On returning home I found my family in the
saddest frame of mind. They had just read the
newspaper that had come (it was October 6th,
old style).

'Twenty-two more executions to-day!' said my
daughter. 'It's horrible!'

'Not only horrible, but senseless,' said I.

'But what ys to be done? They can't be allowed to
rob and kill and go unpunished,' said one of those
present.

Those words: What's to be done? were the very
words the two vagabonds from the estate and to-
day's peasant revolutionary had used.

'It is impossible to endure these insensate horrors
committed by a corrupt government which is
ruining both the country and the people. We

390 WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

hate the means we have to employ, but What 9s to

be done?' say the revolutionists on the one side.

'One cannot allow some self-appointed pre-
tenders to seize power and rule Russia as they like,
perverting and ruining it. Of course, the temporary
measures now employed are lamentable, but
What *s to be done?' say the others, the conservatives.

And I thought of people near to me — revolution-
ists and conservatives — and of to-day's peasant and
of those unfortunate revolutionists who import and
prepare bombs and murder and rob, and of the
equally pitiable, lost men who decree and organize
the courts martial, take part in them, and shoot
and hang, all alike assuring themselves that they
are doing what is necessary and all alike repeating
the same words: What 's to be done?

What *s to be done? they all ask, but they do not
put it as a question: 'What ought I to do?' They
put it as an assertion that it will be much worse
for everyone if we cease to do what we are doing.

And everyone is so accustomed to these words
which hide an explanation and justification of the
most horrible and immoral actions, that it enters
no one's head to ask : 'Who are you who ask What ' s
to be done? Who are you that you consider your-
selves called on to decide other people's fate by
actions which all men— even you yourselves —
know to be odious and wicked? How do you
know that what you wish to alter should be
altered in the way that seems to you to be good?
Do you not know that there are many men such
as you who consider bad and harmful what you
consider good and useful? And how do you know
that what you are doing will produce the results
you expect, for you cannot but be aware that the
results attained are generally contrary to those
aimed at — especially in affairs relating to the life

WHAT'S TO BE DONE? 391

of a whole nation? And above all, what right have
you to do what is contrary to the law of God (if
you acknowledge a God), or to the most generally
accepted laws of morality (if you acknowledge
nothing but the generally accepted laws of moral-
ity)? By what right do you consider yourselves
freed from those most simple and indubitable
human obligations which are irreconcilable with
your revolutionary or governmental actions?

If your question What 's to be done? is really a
question and not a justification, and if you put
it as you should do to yourselves, a quite clear and
simple answer naturally suggests itself. The answer
is that you must do not what the Tsar, Governor,
police-officers, Duma, or some political party
demands of you, but what is natural to you as a
man, what is demanded of you by that Power
which sent you into the world — the Power most
people are accustomed to call God.

And as soon as this reply is given to the question
What 's to be done? it immediately dispels the stupid,
crime-begetting fog under whose influence men
imagine, for some reason, that they, alone of all
men — they who are perhaps the most entangled
and the most astray from the true path of life — are
called on to decide the fate of millions and for the
questionable benefit of these millions to commit
deeds which unquestionably and evidently bring
disaster to them.

There exists a general law acknowledged by all
reasonable men and confirmed by tradition, by all
the religions of all the nations, and by true science.
This law is that men, to fulfil their destiny and
attain their greatest welfare, should help one
another, love one another, and in any case not
attack each other's liberty and life. Yet strange
to say, there are people who assure us that it is

392 WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

quite needless to obey this law, that there are cases
in which one may and should act contrary to it,
and that such deviations from the eternal law will
bring more welfare both to individuals and to
societies than the fulfilment of the reasonable,
supreme law common to all mankind.

The workmen in a vast complex factory have
received and accepted clear instructions from the
master as to what they should and should not do,
both that the works may go well and for their o\\ n
welfare. But people turn up who have no idea of
what the works produce or of how they produce
it, and they assure the workmen that they should
cease to do what the master has ordered and
should do just the contrary, in order that the works
may go properly and the workers obtain the great-
est benefit.

Is not that just what these people are doing —
unable as they are to grasp all the consequences
flowing from the general activity of humanity?
They not only do not obey the eternal laws
(common to all mankind and confirmed by the
human intellect) framed for the success of that
complex human activity as well as for the benefit
of its individual members, but they break them
directly and consciously for the sake of some small
one-sided casual aims set up by some of themselves
(generally the most erring) under the impression
that they will thereby attain results more beneficial
than those obtainable by fulfilling the eternal law
common to all men and consonant with man's
nature — forgetting that others imagine quite the
contrary.

I know that to men suffering from that spiritual
disease, political obsession, a plain and clear
answer to the question What 9s to be done?, an answer
telling them to obey the highest law common to

WHAT'S TO BE DONE? 393

all mankind — the law of love to one's neighbour —
will appear abstract and unpractical. An answer
that would seem to them practical would be one
telling them that men, who cannot know the con-
sequences of their actions and cannot know whether
they will be alive an hour hence, but who know
very well that every murder and act of violence
is bad, should nevertheless — under the fanciful
pretext that they are establishing other people's
future weHare — continually act as if they knew
infallibly what consequences their actions will pro-
duce, and as if they did not know that to kill and
torment people is bad, but only knew that such or
such a monarchy or constitution is desirable.

That will be the case with many who are suffer-
ing from the spiritual disease of political obsession,
but I think the great majority of people suffering
from the horrors and crimes committed by men
who are so diseased will at last understand the
terrible deception under which those lie who regard
coercive power used by man to man to be rightful
and beneficent, and having understood this will
free themselves for ever from the madness and
wickedness of either participating in force-using
power or submitting to it, and will understand that
each man must do one thing — that is, fulfil what
is demanded of him by the reasonable and bene-
ficent Source which men call 'God', of whose
demands no man possessed of reason can fail to be
conscious.

I cannot but think that if all men, forgetting
their various positions as ministers, policemen,
presidents, and members of various combative or
non-combative parties, would only do what is
natural to each of them as a human being — not
only would those horrors and sufferings cease of
which the life of man (and especially of the Russian

394 WHAT'S TO BE DONE?

people) is now full, but the Kingdom of God

would have come upon earth.

If only some people would act so, the more of
them there were the less evil would there be and
the more good order and general welfare.

[October 1906.]

I CANNOT BE SILENT

EVEN death sentences: two in Petersburg, one
Moscow, two in Penza, and two in Riga.
Four executions: two in Kherson, one in Vflna,
one in Odessa.'

This, repeated daily in every newspaper and
continued not for weeks, not for months, not for
a year, but for years. And this in Russia, that
Russia where the people regard every criminal as
a man to be pitied and where till quite recently
capital punishment was not recognized by law!
I remember how proud I used to be of that when
talking to Western Europeans. But now for a
second and even a third year we have executions,
executions, executions, unceasingly!

I take up to-day's paper.

To-day, May gth, the paper contains these few
words: 'To-day in Kherson on the Strelbftsky
Field, twenty peasants1 were hung for an attack,
made with intent to rob, on a landed proprietor's
estate in the Elisabetgrad district.'

Twelve of those by whose labour we live, the
very men whom we have depraved and are still
depraving by every means in our power — from the
poison of vodka to the terrible falsehood of a creed
we impose on them with all our might, but do not
ourselves believe in — twelve of these men strangled

1 The papers have since contradicted the statement that
twenty peasants were hung. I can only be glad of the mistake,
glad not only that eight less have been strangled than was
stated at first, but glad also that the awful figure moved me
to express in these pages a feeling that has long tormented me.
I leave the rest unchanged, therefore, merely substituting
the word twelve for the word twenty, since what I said refers
not only to the twelve who were hung but to all the thousands
who have lately been crushed and killed. — L. T.

396 I CANNOT BE SILENT

with cords by those whom they feed and clothe and
house, and who have depraved and still continue
to deprave them. Twelve husbands, fathers, and
sons, from among those upon whose kindness,
industry, and simplicity alone rests the whole of
Russian life, are seized, imprisoned, and shackled.
Then their hands are tied behind their backs lest
they should seize the ropes by which they are to be
hung, and they are led to the gallows. Several
peasants similar to those about to be hung, but
armed, dressed in clean soldiers' uniforms with
good boots on their feet and with guns in their
hands, accompany the condemned men. Beside
them walks a long-haired man wearing a stole and
vestments of gold or silver cloth, and bearing a
cross. The procession stops. The man in command
of the whole business says something, the secretary
reads a paper; and when the paper has been read
the long-haired man, addressing those whom other
people are about to strangle with cords, says some-
thing about God and Christ. Immediately after
these words the hangmen (there are several, for
one man could not manage so complicated a
business) dissolve some soap, and, having soaped
the loops in the cords that they may tighten better,
seize the shackled men, put shrouds on them, lead
them to a scaffold, and place the well-soaped
nooses round their necks.

And then, one after another, living men are
pushed off the benches which are drawn from under
their feet, and by their own weight suddenly
tighten the nooses round their necks and are pain-
fully strangled. Men, alive a minute before, be-
come corpses dangling from a rope, at first swinging
slowly and then resting motionless.

All this is carefully arranged and planned by
learned and enlightened people of the upper class.

I CANNOT BE SILENT 397

They arrange to do these things secretly at day-
break so that no one shall see them done, and they
arrange that the responsibility for these iniquities
shall be so subdivided among those who commit
them that each may think and say that it is not
he who is responsible for them. They arrange to
seek out the most depraved and unfortunate of
men, and, while obliging them to do this business
planned and approved by themselves, still keep up
an appearance of abhorring those who do it. They
even plan such a subtle device as this: sentences
are pronounced by a military tribunal, yet it is
not military people but civilians who have to be
present at the execution. And the business is per-
formed by unhappy, deluded, perverted, and
despised men who have nothing left them but to
soap the cords well that they may grip the necks
without fail, and then to get well drunk on poison
sold them by these same enlightened upper-class
people in order the more quickly and fully to forget
their souls and their quality as men. A doctor
makes his round of the bodies, feels them, and
reports to those in authority that the business has
been done properly — all twelve are certainly dead.
And those in authority depart to their ordinary
occupations with the consciousness of a necessary
though painful task performed. The bodies, now
grown cold, are taken down and buried.

The thing is awful!

And this is done not once, and not only to these
twelve unhappy, misguided men from among the
best class of the Russian people; it is done un-
ceasingly for years, to hundreds and thousands of
similar misguided men, misguided by the very
people who do these terrible things to them.

And it is not this dreadful thing alone that is
being done. All sorts of other tortures and violence

398 I CANNOT BE SILENT

are being perpetrated in prisons, fortresses, and
convict settlements, on the same plea and with the
same cold-blooded cruelty.

This is dreadful, but most dreadful of all is the
fact that it is not done impulsively under the sway
of feelings that silence reason, as occurs in fights,
war, or even burglary, but on the contrary it is
done at the demand of reason and calculation that
silence feeling. That is what makes these deeds
so particularly dreadful. Dreadful because these
acts — committed by men who, from the judge
to the hangman, do not wish to do them — prove
more vividly than anything else how pernicious to
human souls is despotism ; the power of man over
man.

It is revolting that one man can take from
another his labour, his money, his cow, his horse,
nay, even his son or his daughter — but how much
more revolting it is that one man can take another's
soul by forcing him to do what destroys his spiritual
ego and deprives him of spiritual welfare. And
that is just what is done by these men who arrange
executions, and who by bribes, threats, and decep-
tions calmly force men — from the judge to the
hangman — to commit deeds that certainly deprive
them of their true welfare though they are com-
mitted in the name of the welfare of mankind.

And while this goes on for years all over Russia,
the chief culprits — those by whose order these things
are done, those who could put a stop to them —
fully convinced that such deeds are useful and even
absolutely necessary, either compose speeches and
devise methods to prevent the Finns from living
as they want to live, and to compel them to live
as certain Russian personages wish them to live,
or else publish orders to the effect that: 'In Hussar
regiments the cuffs and collars of the men's jackets

I CANNOT BE SILENT 399

are to be of the same colour as the latter, while
those entitled to wear pelisses are not to have braid
round the cuffs over the fur.'

What is most dreadful in the whole matter is
that all this inhuman violence and killing, besides
the direct evil done to the victims and their
families, brings a yet more enormous evil on the
whole people by spreading depravity — as fire
spreads amid dry straw — among every class of
Russians. This depravity grows with special
rapidity among the simple working folk because
all these iniquities — exceeding as they do a hun-
dredfold all that is or has been done by thieves,
robbers, and all the revolutionaries put together —
are done as though they were something necessary,
good, and unavoidable; and are not merely ex-
cused but supported by different institutions in-
separably connected in the people's minds with
justice, and even with sanctity — namely, the
Senate, the Synod, the Duma, the Church, and
the Tsar.

And this depravity spreads with remarkable
rapidity.

A short time ago there were not two executioners
to be found in all Russia. In the eighties there
was only one. I remember how joyfully Vladimir
Solovev then told me that no second executioner
could be found in all Russia and so the one was
taken from place to place. Not so now.

A small shopkeeper in Moscow whose affairs
were in a bad way offered his services to perform
the murders arranged by the government, and,
receiving a hundred rubles (£10) for each person
hung, soon mended his affairs so well that he no
longer required this additional business and has
now reverted to his former trade.

400 I CANNOT BE SILENT

In Orel last month, as elsewhere, an executioner
was wanted, and a man was immediately found who
agreed with the organizers of governmental mur-
ders to do the business for fifty rubles per head.
But this volunteer hangman, after making the
agreement, heard that more was paid in other
towns, and at the time of the execution, having
put the shroud sack on the victim, instead of
leading him to the scaffold, stopped, and, ap-
proaching the superintendent, said : 'You must add
another twenty-five rubles, your Excellency, or
I won't do it!5 And he got the increase and did
the job.

A little later five people were to be hanged, and
the day before the execution a stranger came to see
the organizer of governmental murders on a private
matter. The organizer went out to him, and the
stranger said:

'The other day so-and-so charged you seventy-
five rubles a man. I hear five are to be done to-
morrow. Let me have the whole job and I'll do
it at fifteen rubles a head, and you can rely on its
being done properly!'

I do not know whether the offer was accepted or
not, but I know it was made.

That is how the crimes committed by the govern-
ment act on the worst, the least moral, of the
people, and these terrible deeds must also have
an influence on the majority of men of average
morality. Continually hearing and reading about
the most terrible inhuman brutality committed by
the authorities — that is, by persons whom the
people are accustomed to honour as the best of
men — the majority of average people, especially
the young, preoccupied with their own affairs,
instead of realizing that those who do such horrible
deeds are unworthy of honour, involuntarily come

I CANNOT BE SILENT 401

to the opposite conclusion and argue that if men
generally honoured do things that seem to us
horrible, these things cannot be as horrible as we
suppose.

Of executions, hangings, murders, and bombs,
people now write and speak as they used to speak
about the weather. Children play at hangings.
Lads from the high schools who are almost children
go out on expropriating expeditions, ready to kill,
just as they used to go out hunting. To kill off the
large landed proprietors in order to seize their
estates appears now to many people to be the very
best solution of the land question.

In general, thanks to the activity of the govern-
ment which has allowed killing as a means of
obtaining its ends, all crimes, robbery, theft, lies,
tortures, and murders are now considered by miser-
able people who have been perverted by that
example to be most natural deeds, proper to a
man.

Yes! Terrible as are the deeds themselves, the
moral, spiritual, unseen evil they produce is in-
comparably more terrible.

You say you commit all these horrors to restore
peace and order.

You restore peace and order!

By what means do you restore them? By destroy-
ing the last vestige of faith and morality in men
— you, representatives of a Christian authority,
leaders and teachers approved arid encouraged by
the servants of the Church! By committing the
greatest crimes: lies, perfidy, torture of all sorts,
and this last and most terrible of crimes, the one
most abhorrent to every human heart that is not
utterly depraved — not just a single murder but
murders innumerable, which you think to justify

402 I CANNOT BE SILENT

by stupid references to such and such statutes

written by yourselves in those stupid and lying

books of yours which you blasphemously call 'the

laws'.

You say that this is the only means of pacifying
the people and quelling the revolution; but that
is evidently false! It is plain that you cannot
pacify the people unless you satisfy the demand
of most elementary justice advanced by Russia's
whole agricultural population (that is, the demand
for the abolition of private property in land) and
refrain from confirming it and in various ways
irritating the peasants, as well as those unbalanced
and envenomed people who have begun a violent
struggle with you. You cannot pacify people by
tormenting them and worrying, exiling, imprison-
ing, and hanging women and children! However
hard you may try to stifle in yourselves the reason
and love natural to human beings, you still have
them within you, and need only come to your senses
and think, in order to see that by acting as you
do — that is, by taking part in such terrible crimes —
you not only fail to cure the disease, but by driving
it inwards make it worse.

That is only too evident.

The cause of what is happening does not lie in
physical events, but depends entirely on the
spiritual mood of the people, which has changed
and which no efforts can bring back to its former
condition, just as no efforts can turn a grown-up
man into a child again. Social irritation or tran-
quillity cannot depend on whether Peter is hanged
or allowed to live, or on whether John lives in
Tamb6v or in penal servitude at Nerchfnsk. Social
irritation or tranquillity must depend not on Peter
or John alone but on how the great majority of the
nation regard their position, and on the attitude of

I CANNOT BE SILENT 403

this majority to the government, to landed property,
to the religion taught them, and on what this
majority consider to be good or bad. The power
of events does not lie in the material conditions
of life at all, but in the spiritual condition of the
people. Even if you were to kill and torture a
tenth of the Russian nation, the spiritual condition
of the rest would not become what you desire.

So that all you are now doing, with all your
searchings, spyings, exiling, prisons, penal settle-
ments, and gallows, does not bring the people to
the state you desire, but on the contrary increases
the irritation and destroys all possibility of peace
and order.

'But what is to be done?' you say. 'What is to
be done? How are the iniquities that are now
perpetrated to be stopped?'

The answer is very simple: 'Cease to do what
you are doing.'

Even if no one knew what ought to be done
to pacify cthe people' — the whole people (many
people know very well that what is most wanted to
pacify the Russian people is the freeing of the land
from private ownership, just as fifty years ago what
was wanted was to free the peasants from serfdom)
— if no one knew this, it would still be evident that
to pacify the people one ought not to do what only
increases its irritation. Yet that is just what you
are doing!

What you are doing, you do not for the people
but for yourselves, to retain the position you
occupy, a position you consider advantageous but
which is really a most pitiful and abominable one.
So do not say that you do it for the people; that
is not true ! All the abominations you do are done
for yourselves, for your own covetous, ambitious,
vain, vindictive, personal ends, in order to con-

404 I CANNOT BE SILENT

tinue for a little longer in the depravity in which

you live and which seems to you desirable.

However much you may declare that all you do
is done for the good of the people, men are begin-
ning to understand you and despise you more and
more, and to regard your measures of restraint and
suppression not as you wish them to be regarded —
as the action of some kind of higher collective
Being, the government — but as the personal evil
deeds of individual and evil self-seekers.

Then again you say: 'The revolutionaries began
all this, not we, and their terrible crimes can only
be suppressed by firm measures' (so you call your
crimes) 'on the part of the government.'

You say the atrocities committed by the revolu-
tionaries are terrible.

I do not dispute it. I will add that besides being
terrible they are stupid, and — like your own actions
— fall beside the mark. Yet however terrible and
stupid may be their actions — all those bombs and
tunnellings, those revolting murders and thefts of
money — still all these deeds do not come anywhere
near the criminality and stupidity of the deeds you
commit.

They are doing just the same as you and for the
same motives. They are in the same (I would say
'comic' were its consequences not so terrible)
delusion, that men having formed for themselves
a plan of what in their opinion is the desirable and
proper arrangement of society, have the right and
possibility of arranging other people's lives accord-
ing to that plan. The delusion is the same. These
methods are violence of all kinds — including taking
life. And the excuse is that an evil deed committed
for the benefit of many, ceases to be immoral; and
that therefore without offending against the moral

I CANNOT BE SILENT 405

law, one may lie, rob, and kill whenever this tends
to the realization of that supposed good condition
for the many which we imagine that we know and
can foresee, and which we wish to establish.

You government people call the acts of the
revolutionaries 'atrocities' and 'great crimes'; but
the revolutionaries have done and are doing
nothing that you have not done, and done to an
incomparably greater extent. They only do what
you do; you keep spies, practise deception, and
spread printed lies, and so do they. You take
people's property by all sorts of violent means and
use it as you consider best, and they do the same.
You execute those whom you think dangerous,
and so do they.

So you certainly cannot blame the revolution-
aries while you employ the same immoral means
as they do for the attainment of your aim. All that
you can adduce for your own justification, they
can equally adduce for theirs; not to mention that
you do much evil that they do not commit, such
as squandering the wealth of the nation, preparing
for war, making war, subduing and oppressing
foreign nationalities, and much else.

You say you have the traditions of the past to
guard and the actions of the great men of the past
as examples. They, too, have their traditions, also
arising from the past — even before the French
Revolution. And as to great men, models to copy,
martyrs that perished for truth and freedom — they
have no fewer of these than you.

So that if there is any difference between you it
is only that you wish everything to remain as it
has been and is, while they wish for a change. And
in thinking that everything cannot always remain
as it has been they would be more right than you,
had they not adopted from you that curious,

406 I CANNOT BE SILENT

destructive delusion that one set of men can know
the form of life suitable for all men in the future,
and that this form can be established by force.
For the rest they only do what you do, using the
same means. They are altogether your disciples.
They have, as the saying is, picked up all your
little dodges. They are not only your disciples, they
are your products, your children. If you did not
exist neither would they; so that when you try
to suppress them by force you behave like a man
who presses with his whole weight against a door
that opens towards him.

If there be any difference between you and them
it is certainly not in your favour but in theirs. The
mitigating circumstances on their side are, firstly,
that their crimes are committed under conditions
of greater personal danger than you are exposed
to, and risks and danger excuse much in the eyes
of impressionable youth. Secondly, the immense
majority of them are quite young people to whom
it is natural to go astray, while you for the most
part are men of mature age — old men to whom
reasoned calm and leniency towards the deluded
should be natural. A third mitigating circumstance
in their favour is that however odious their murders
may be, they are still not so coldly, systematically
cruel as are your Schlusselburgs, transportations,
gallows, and shootings. And a fourth mitigating
circumstance for the revolutionaries is that they all
quite categorically repudiate all religious teaching
and consider that the end justifies the means. There-
fore when they kill one or more men for the sake of
the imaginary welfare of the majority, they act quite
consistently; whereas you government men — from
the lowest hangman to the highest official — all sup-
port religion and Christianity, which is altogether
incompatible with the deeds you commit.

I CANNOT BE SILENT 407

And it is you elderly men, leaders of other men,
professing Christianity, it is you who say, like
children who have been fighting, 'We didn't begin
— they did!' That is the best you can say — you
who have taken on yourselves the role of rulers of
the people. And what sort of men are you ? Men
who acknowledge as God one who most definitely
forbade not only judgement and punishment, but
even condemnation of others; one who in clearest
terms repudiated all punishment, and affirmed the
necessity of continual forgiveness however often a
crime may be repeated; one who commanded us
to turn the other cheek to the smiter, and not return
evil for evil; one who in the case of the woman
sentenced to be stoned, showed so simply and
clearly the impossibility of judgement and punish-
ment between man and man. And you, acknow-
ledging that teacher to be God, can find nothing
better to say in your defence than: 'They began
it! They kill people, so let us kill them!'

An artist of my acquaintance thought of painting
a picture of an execution, and he wanted a model
for the executioner. He heard that the duty of
executioner in Moscow was at that time performed
by a watchman, so he went to the watchman's
house. It was Easter-time. The family were sitting
in their best clothes at the tea-table, but the master
of the house was not there. It turned out after-
wards that on catching sight of a stranger he had
hidden himself. His wife also seemed abashed, and
said that her husband was not at home; but his
little girl betrayed him by saying: 'Daddy's in the
garret.' She did not know that her father was aware
that what he did was evil and therefore could not
help being afraid of everybody. The artist ex-
plained to the wife that he wanted her husband

4o8 I CANNOT BE SILENT

as a model because his face suited the picture he
had planned (of course he did not say what the
picture was). Having got into conversation with
the wife, the artist, in order to conciliate her, offered
to take her little son as a pupil, an offer which
evidently tempted her. She went out and after a
time the husband entered, morose, restless, fright-
ened, and looking askance. For a long time he
tried to get the artist to say why he required just
him. When the artist told him he had met him
in the street and his face seemed suitable to the
projected picture, the watchman asked where had
he met him? At what time? In what clothes?
And he would not come to terms, evidently fearing
and suspecting something bad.

Yes, this executioner at first-hand knows that he
is an executioner, he knows that he does wrong
and is therefore hated, and he is afraid of men:
and I think that this consciousness and this fear
before men atone for at least a part of his guilt.
But none of you — from the Secretary of the Court
to the Premier and the Tsar — who are indirect
participators in the iniquities perpetrated every
day, seem to feel your guilt or the shame that your
participation in these horrors ought to evoke. It
is true that like the executioner you fear men, and
the greater your responsibility for the crimes the
more your fear: the Public Prosecutor feels more
fear than the Secretary; the President of the Court
more than the Public Prosecutor; the General
Governor more than the President; the President
of the Council of Ministers more still, and the Tsar
most of all. You arc all afraid, but unlike the
executioner you are afraid not because you know
you are doing evil, but because you think other
people do evil.

Therefore I think that, low as that unfortunate

I CANNOT BE SILENT 409

watchman has fallen, he is morally immeasurably
higher than you participators and part authors of
these awful crimes: you who condemn others
instead of yourselves and carry your heads so high.

I know that men are but human, that we are
all weak, that we all err, and that one cannot
judge another. I have long struggled against the
feeling that was and is aroused in me by those
responsible for these awful crimes, and aroused the
more the higher they stand on the social ladder.
But I cannot and will not struggle against that
feeling any longer.

I cannot and will not. First, because an exposure
of these people who do not see the full criminality
of their actions is necessary for them as well as for
the multitude which, influenced by the external
honour and laudation accorded to these people,
approves their terrible deeds and even tries to
imitate them. And secondly because (I frankly
confess it) I hope my exposure of those men will in
one way or other evoke the expulsion I desire from
the set in which I am now living, and in which I
cannot but feel myself a participant in the crimes
committed around me.

Everything now being done in Russia is done in
the name of the general welfare, in the name of
the protection and tranquillity of the people of
Russia. And if this be so, then it is also done for
me who live in Russia. For me, therefore, exists
the destitution of the people deprived of the first
and most natural right of man — the right to use
the land on which he is born; for me those half-
million men torn away from wholesome peasant
life and dressed in uniforms and taught to kill; for
me that false so-called priesthood whose chief duty
it is to pervert and conceal true Christianity; for

4io I CANNOT BE SILENT

me all these transportations of men from place to
place; for me these hundreds of thousands of
hungry migratory workmen; for me these hundreds
of thousands of unfortunates dying of typhus and
scurvy in the fortresses and prisons which are in-
sufficient for such a multitude ; for me the mothers,
wives, and fathers of the exiles, the prisoners, and
those who are hanged, are suffering; for me are
these spies and this bribery; for me the interment
of these dozens and hundreds of men who have
been shot; for me the horrible work of these hang-
men goes on — who were at first enlisted with
difficulty but now no longer so loathe their work;
for me exist these gallows with well-soaped cords
from which hang women, children, and peasants;
and for me exists this terrible embitterment of man
against his fellow man.

Strange as it seems to say that all this is done
for me, and that I am a participator in these
terrible deeds, I cannot but feel that there is an
indubitable interdependence between my spacious
room, my dinner, my clothing, my leisure, and the
terrible crimes committed to get rid of those who
would like to take from me what I have. And
though I know that these homeless, embittered,
depraved people — who but for the government's
threats would deprive me of all I am using — are
products of that same government's actions, still
I cannot help feeling that at present my peace really
is dependent on all the horrors that are now being
perpetrated by the government.

And being conscious of this I can no longer
endure it, but must free myself from this intolerable
position !

It is impossible to live so ! I, at any rate, cannot
and will not live so.

That is why I write this and will circulate it by

I CANNOT BE SILENT 411

all means in my power both in Russia and abroad
— that one of two things may happen: either that
these inhuman deeds may be stopped, or that my
connexion with them may be snapped and I put
in prison, where I may be clearly conscious that
these horrors are not committed on my behalf;
or still better (so good that I dare not even dream
of such happiness) that they may put on me, as
on those twelve or twenty peasants, a shroud and
a cap and may push me also off a bench, so that
by my own weight I may tighten the well-soaped
noose round my old throat.

To attain one of these two aims I address myself
to all participators in these terrible deeds, begin-
ning with those who put on their brother men and
women and children those caps and nooses — from
the prison warders up to you, chief organizers and
authorizers of these terrible crimes.

Brother men! Gome to your senses, stop and
think, consider what you are doing! Remember
who you are!

Before being hangmen, generals, public prose-
cutors, judges, premier or Tsar, are you not men —
to-day allowed a peep into God's world, to-morrow
ceasing to be? (You hangmen of all grades in
particular, who have evoked and are evoking
special hatred, should remember this.) Is it pos-
sible that you who have had this brief glimpse of
God's world (for even if you be not murdered, death
is always close behind us all), is it possible that in
your lucid moments you do not see that your
vocation in life cannot be to torment and kill men;
yourselves trembling with fear of being killed, lying
to yourselves, to others, and to God, assuring your-
selves and others that by participating in these things
you are doing an important and grand work for

4X2 I CANNOT BE SILENT

the welfare of millions? Is it possible that — when
not intoxicated by your surroundings, by flattery,
and by the customary sophistries — you do not each
one of you know that this is all mere talk, only
invented that, while doing most evil deeds, you
may still consider yourself a good man? You
cannot but know that you, like each of us, have
but one real duty which includes all others — the
duty of living the short space granted us in accord
with the Will that sent you into this world, and of
leaving it in accord with that Will. And that Will
desires only one thing : love from man to man.

But what are you doing? To what are you
devoting your spiritual strength? Whom do you
love? Who loves you? Your wife? Your child?
But that is not love. The love of wife and children
is not human love. Animals love in that way even
more strongly. Human love is the love of man for
man — for every man as a son of God and therefore
a brother. Whom do you love in that way? No
one. Who loves you in that way? No one.

You are feared as a hangman or a wild animal is
feared. People flatter you because at heart they
despise and hate you — and how they hate you!
And you know it and are afraid of men.

Yes, consider it — all you accomplices in murder
from the highest to the lowest, consider who you
are and cease to do what you are doing. Cease,
not for your own sakes, not for the sake of your own
personality, not for the sake of men, not that you
may cease to be blamed, but for your soul's sake
and for the God who lives within you!

1908*

A LETTER TO A HINDU

THE SUBJECTION OF INDIA — ITS CAUSE AND CURE

With an Introduction by M. K. GANDHI

INTRODUCTION

letter printed below is a translation of
J> Tolstoy's letter written in Russian in reply to
one from the Editor of Free Hindustan. Alter having
passed from hand to hand, this letter at last came
into my possession through a friend who asked me,
as one much interested in Tolstoy's writings,
whether I thought it worth publishing. I at once
replied in the affirmative, and told him I should
translate it myself into Gujarati and induce others
to translate and publish it in various Indian
vernaculars.

The letter as received by me wras a type-written
copy. It was therefore referred to the author, who
confirmed it as his and kindly granted me per-
mission to print it.

To me, as a humble follower of that great
teacher whom I have long looked upon as one of
my guides, it is a matter of honour to be connected
with the publication of his letter, such especially
as the one which is now being given to the world.

It is a mere statement of fact to say that every
Indian, whether he owns up to it or not, has
national aspirations. But there are as many
opinions as there are Indian nationalists as to the
exact meaning of that aspiration, and more es-
pecially as to the methods to be used to attain
the end.

One of the accepted and 'time-honoured'
methods to attain the end is that of violence. The

414 A LETTER TO A HINDU

assassination of Sir Gurzon Wylie was an illustra-
tion of that method in its worst and most detestable
form. Tolst6y's life has been devoted to replacing
the method of violence for removing tyranny or
securing reform by the method of non-resistance
to evil. He would meet hatred expressed in
violence by love expressed in self-suffering. He
admits of no exception to whittle down this great
and divine law of love. He applies it to all the
problems that trouble mankind.

When a man like Tolstoy, one of the clearest
thinkers in the western world, one of the greatest
writers, one who as a soldier has known what
violence is and what it can do, condemns Japan
for having blindly followed the law of modern
science, falsely so-called, and fears for that country
'the greatest calamities', it is for us to pause and
consider whether, in our impatience of English
rule, we do not want to replace one evil by another
and a worse. India, which is the nursery of the
great faiths of the world, will cease to be nationalist
India, whatever else she may become, when she
goes through the process of civilization in the shape
of reproduction on that sacred soil of gun factories
and the hateful industrialism which has reduced
the people of Europe to a state of slavery, and all
but stifled among them the best instincts which are
the heritage of the human family.

If we do not want the English in India we must
pay the price. Tolst6y indicates it. 'Do not resist
evil, but also do not yourselves participate in evil —
in the violent deeds of the administration of the
law courts, the collection of taxes and, what is
more important, of the soldiers, and no one in the
world will enslave you9, passionately declares the
sage of Yasnaya Polyana. Who can question
the truth of what he says in the following: 'A

A LETTER TO A HINDU 415

commercial company enslaved a nation comprising
two hundred millions. Tell this to a man free from
superstition and he will fail to grasp what these
words mean. What does it mean that thirty
thousand people, not athletes, but rather weak and
ordinary people, have enslaved two hundred mil-
lions of vigorous, clever, capable, freedom-loving
people? Do not the figures make it clear that not
the English, but the Indians, have enslaved them-
selves?'

One need not accept all that Tolstoy says — some
of his facts are not accurately stated — to realize the
central truth of his indictment of the present
system, which is to understand and act upon the
irresistible power of the soul over the body, of
love, which is an attribute of the soul, over the
brute or body force generated by the stirring up
in us of evil passions.

There is no doubt that there is nothing new in
what Tolstoy preaches. But his presentation of the
old truth is refreshingly forceful. His logic is
unassailable. And above all he endeavours to
practise what he preaches. He preaches to con-
vince. He is sincere and in earnest. He commands
attention.

M. K. GANDHI.

[igth November,

A LETTER TO A HINDU

By LEO TOLST6Y

All that exists is One. People only call this One by different
names. . THE VEDAS.

God is love, and he that abideth in love abideth in God,
and God abideth in him. i JOHN iv. 16.

God is one whole ; we are the parts.

Exposition of the teaching of the Vedas by Vivekananda.

I

Do not seek quiet and rest in those earthly realms
where delusions and desires are engendered, for if thou
dost, thou wilt be dragged through the rough wilderness
of life, which is far from Me. Whenever thou feelest
that thy feet are becoming entangled in the interlaced
roots of life, know that thou has strayed from the path
to which I beckon thee : for I have placed thee in broad,
smooth paths, which are strewn with flowers. I have put
a light before thee, which thou canst follow and thus run
without stumbling. KRISHNA.

I have received your letter and two numbers
of your periodical, both of which interest me
extremely. The oppression of a majority by a
minority, and the demoralization inevitably re-
sulting from it, is a phenomenon that has always
occupied me and has done so most particularly of
late. I will try to explain to you what I think about
that subject in general, and particularly about the
cause from which the dreadful evils of which you
write in your letter, and in the Hindu periodical
you have sent me, have arisen and continue to
arise.

The reason for the astonishing fact that a major-
ity of working people submit to a handful of idlers
who control their labour and their very lives is

A LETTER TO A HINDU 417

always and everywhere the same — whether the
oppressors and oppressed are of one race or
whether, as in India and elsewhere, the oppressors
are of a different nation.

This phenomenon seems particularly strange in
India, for there more than two hundred million
people, highly gifted both physically and mentally,
find themselves in the power of a small group of
people quite alien to them in thought, and im-
measurably inferior to them in religious morality.

From your letter and the articles in Free Hin-
dustan as well as from the very interesting writings of
the Hindu Swami Vivekananda and others, it ap-
pears that, as is the case in our time with the ills of
all nations, the reason lies in the lack of a reasonable
religious teaching which by explaining the meaning
of life would supply a supreme law for the guidance
of conduct and would replace the more than
dubious precepts of pseudo-religion and pseudo-
science with the immoral conclusions deduced from
them and commonly called 'civilization5.

Your letter, as well as the articles in Free Hin-
dustan and Indian political literature generally,
shows that most of the leaders of public opinion
among your people no longer attach any signifi-
cance to the religious teachings that were and are
professed by the peoples of India, and recognize
no possibility of freeing the people from the op-
pression they endure except by adopting the
irreligious and profoundly immoral social arrange-
ments under which the English and other pseudo-
Christian nations live to-day.

And yet the chief if not the sole cause of the
enslavement of the Indian peoples by the English
lies in this very absence of a religious conscious-
ness and of the guidance for conduct which should
flow from it — a lack common in our day to all

459 p

4i8 A LETTER TO A HINDU

nations East and West, from Japan to England and

America alike.

II

O ye, who see perplexities over your heads, beneath
your feet, and to the right and left of you; you will
be an eternal enigma unto yourselves until ye become
humble and joyful as children. Then will ye find Me,
and having found Me in yourselves, you will rule
over worlds, and looking out from the great world
within to the little world without, you will bless every-
thing that is, and find all is well with time and with you.

KRISHNA.

To make my thoughts clear to you I must go
farther back. We do not, cannot, and I venture
to say need not, know how men lived millions of
years ago or even ten thousand years ago, but we
do know positively that, as far back as we have
any knowledge of mankind, it has always lived in
special groups of families, tribes, and nations in
which the majority, in the conviction that it must
be so, submissively and willingly bowed to the rule
of one or more persons — that is to a very small
minority. Despite all varieties of circumstances and
personalities these relations manifested themselves
among the various peoples of whose origin we have
any knowledge; and the farther back we go the
more absolutely necessary did this arrangement
appear, both to the rulers and the ruled, to make
it possible for people to live peacefully together.

So it was everywhere. But though this external
form of life existed for centuries and still exists, very
early — thousands of years before our time — amid
this life based on coercion, one and the same thought
constantly emerged among different nations, name-
ly, that in every individual a spiritual element is
manifested that gives life to all that exists, and

A LETTER TO A HINDU 419

that this spiritual element strives to unite with
everything of a like nature to itself, and attains
this aim through love. This thought appeared in
most various forms at different times and places,
with varying completeness and clarity. It found
expression in Brahmanism, Judaism, Mazdaism
(the teachings of Zoroaster) , in Buddhism, Taoism,
Confucianism, and in the writings of the Greek
and Roman sages, as well as in Christianity and
Mohammedanism. The mere fact that this thought
has sprung up among different nations and at
different times indicates that it is inherent in human
nature and contains the truth. But this truth was
made known to people who considered that a
community could only be kept together if some of
them restrained others, and so it appeared quite
irreconcilable with the existing order of society.
Moreover it was at first expressed only frag-
mentarily, and so obscurely that though people
admitted its theoretic truth they could not entirely
accept it as guidance for their conduct. Then, too,
the dissemination of the truth in a society based
on coercion was always hindered in one and the
same manner, namely, those in power, feeling that
the recognition of this truth would undermine their
position, consciously or sometimes unconsciously
perverted it by explanations and additions quite
foreign to it, and also opposed it by open violence.
Thus the truth — that his life should be directed
by the spiritual element which is its basis, which
manifests itself as love, and which is so natural to
man — this truth, in order to force a way to man's
consciousness, had to struggle not merely against
the obscurity with which it was expressed and the
intentional and unintentional distortions surround-
ing it, but also against deliberate violence, which
by means of persecutions and punishments sought to

420 A LETTER TO A HINDU

compel men to accept religious laws authorized
by the rulers and conflicting with the truth. Such
a hindrance and misrepresentation of the truth —
which had not yet achieved complete clarity —
occurred everywhere : in Confucianism and Taoism,
in Buddhism and in Christianity, in Moham-
medanism and in your Brahmanism.

Ill

My hand has sowed love everywhere, giving unto
all that will receive. Blessings are offered unto all My
children, but many times in their blindness they fail
to see them. How few there are who gather the gifts
which lie in profusion at their feet: how many there are,
who, in wilful waywardness, turn their eyes away from
them and complain with a wail that they have not that
which I have given them; many of them defiantly
repudiate not only My gifts, but Me also, Me, the Source
of all blessings and the Author of their being.

KRISHNA.

I tarry awhile from the turmoil and strife of the world.
I will beautify and quicken thy life with love and with
joy, for the light of the soul is Love. Where Love is,
there is contentment and peace, and where there is
contentment and peace, there am I, also, in their midst.

KRISHNA.

The aim of the sinless One consists in acting without
causing sorrow to others, although he could attain to
great power by ignoring their feelings.

The aim of the sinless One lies in not doing evil unto
those who have done evil unto him.

If a man causes suffering even to those who hate him
without any reason, he will ultimately have grief not
to be overcome.

The punishment of evil doers consists in making
them feel ashamed of themselves by doing them a great
kindness.

Of what use is superior knowledge in the one, if he

A LETTER TO A HINDU 421

does not endeavour to relieve his neighbour's want as
much as his own?

If, in the morning, a man wishes to do evil unto an-
other, in the evening the evil will return to him.

THE HINDU KURAL.

Thus it went on everywhere. The recognition
that love represents the highest morality was no-
where denied or contradicted, but this truth was
so interwoven everywhere with all kinds of false-
hoods which distorted it, that finally nothing of
it remained but words. It was taught that this
highest morality was only applicable to private
life — for home use, as it were — but that in public
life all forms of violence — such as imprisonment,
executions, and wars — might be used for the pro-
tection of the majority against a minority of evil-
doers, though such means were diametrically op-
posed to any vestige of love. And though common
sense indicated that if some men claim to decide
who is to be subjected to violence of all kinds for
the benefit of others, these men to whom violence
is applied may, in turn, arrive at a similar con-
clusion with regard to those who have employed
violence to them, and though the great religious
teachers of Brahmanism, Buddhism, and above all
of Christianity, foreseeing such a perversion of the
law of love, have constantly drawn attention to the
one invariable condition of love (namely, the en-
during of injuries, insults, and violence of all kinds
without resisting evil by evil) people continued —
regardless of all that leads man forward — to try to
unite the incompatibles : the virtue of love, and
what is opposed to love, namely, the restraining of
evil by violence. And such a teaching, despite its
inner contradiction, was so firmly established that
the very people who recognize love as a virtue
accept as lawful at the same time an order of life

422 A LETTER TO A HINDU

based on violence and allowing men not merely

to torture but even to kill one another.

For a long time people lived in this obvious
contradiction without noticing it. But a time
arrived when this contradiction became more and
more evident to thinkers of various nations. And
the old and simple truth that it is natural for men
to help and to love one another, but not to torture
and to kill one another, became ever clearer, so
that fewer and fewer people were able to believe
the sophistries by which the distortion of the truth
had been made so plausible.

In former times the chief method of justifying
the use of violence and thereby infringing the law
of love was by claiming a divine right for the
rulers: the Tsars, Sultans, Rajahs, Shahs, and other
heads of states. But the longer humanity lived
the weaker grew the belief in this peculiar. God-
given right of the ruler. That belief withered in
the same way and almost simultaneously in the
Christian and the Brahman world, as well as in
Buddhist and Confucian spheres, and in recent
times it has so faded away as to prevail no longer
against man's reasonable understanding and the
true religious feeling. People saw more and more
clearly, and now the majority see quite clearly, the
senselessness and immorality of subordinating their
wills to those of other people just like themselves,
when they are bidden to do what is contrary not
only to their interests but also to their moral sense.
And so one might suppose that having lost con-
fidence in any religious authority for a belief in
the divinity of potentates of various kinds, people
would try to free themselves from subjection to it.
But unfortunately not only were the rulers, who
were considered supernatural beings, benefited by
having the peoples in subjection, but as a result of

A LETTER TO A HINDU 423

the belief in, and during the rule of, these pseudo-
divine beings, ever larger and larger circles of
people grouped and established themselves around
them, and under an appearance of governing took
advantage of the people. And when the old decep-
tion of a supernatural and God-appointed authority
had dwindled away these men were only concerned
to devise a new one which like its predecessor
should make it possible to hold the people in bond-
age to a limited number of rulers.

IV

Children, do you want to know by what your hearts
should be guided? Throw aside your longings and
strivings after that which is null and void ; get rid of your
erroneous thoughts about happiness and wisdom, and
your empty and insincere desires. Dispense with these
and you will know Love. KRISHNA.

Be not the destroyers of yourselves. Arise to your true
Being, and then you will have nothing to fear.

KRISHNA.

New justifications have now appeared in place
of the antiquated, obsolete, religious ones. These
new justifications are just as inadequate as the
old ones, but as they are new their futility cannot
immediately be recognized by the majority of men.
Besides this, those who enjoy power propagate
these new sophistries and support them so skilfully
that they seem irrefutable even to many of those
who suffer from the oppression these theories seek
to justify. These new justifications are termed
'scientific5. But by the term 'scientific* is under-
stood just what was formerly understood by the
term 'religious' : just as formerly everything called
'religious' was held to be unquestionable simply
because it was called religious, so now all that is

424 A LETTER TO A HINDU

called 'scientific' is held to be unquestionable. In
the present case the obsolete religious justification
of violence which consisted in the recognition of
the supernatural personality of the God-ordained
ruler ('there is no power but of God') has been
superseded by the 'scientific' justification which
puts forward, first, the assertion that because the
coercion of man by man has existed in all ages, it
follows that such coercion must continue to exist.
This assertion that people should continue to live
as they have done throughout past ages rather
than as their reason and conscience indicate, is
what 'science' calls 'the historic law'. A further
'scientific' justification lies in the statement that
as among plants and wild beasts there is a constant
struggle for existence which always results in the
survival of the fittest, a similar struggle should be
carried on among human beings — beings, that is,
who are gifted with intelligence and love; faculties
lacking in the creatures subject to the struggle for
existence and survival of the fittest. Such is the
second 'scientific' justification.

The third, most important, and unfortunately
most widespread justification is, at bottom, the
age-old religious one just a little altered : that in
public life the suppression of some for the protec-
tion of the majority cannot be avoided — so that
coercion is unavoidable however desirable reliance
on love alone might be in human intercourse.
The only difference in this justification by pseudo-
science consists in the fact that, to the question
why such and such people and not others have the
right to decide against whom violence may and
must be used, pseudo-science now gives a different
reply to that given by religion — which declared
that the right to decide was valid because it was
pronounced by persons possessed of divine power.

A LETTER TO A HINDU 425

'Science' says that these decisions represent the
will of the people, which under a constitutional
form of government is supposed to find expression
in all the decisions and actions of those who are at
the helm at the moment.

Such are the scientific justifications of the prin-
ciple of coercion. They are not merely weak but
absolutely invalid, yet they are so much needed
by those who occupy privileged positions that they
believe in them as blindly as they formerly believed
in the immaculate conception, and propagate
them just as confidently. And the unfortunate
majority of men bound to toil is so dazzled by the
pomp with which these 'scientific truths' are pre-
sented, that under this new influence it accepts
these scientific stupidities for holy truth, just as it
formerly accepted the pseudo-religious justifica-
tions; and it continues to submit to the present
holders of power who are just as hard-hearted but
rather more numerous than before.

V

Who am I? I am that which thou hast searched for
since thy baby eyes gazed wonderingly upon the world,
whose horizon hides this real life from thee. I am that
which in thy heart thou hast prayed for, demanded as
thy birthright, although thou hast not known what it
was. I am that which has lain in thy soul for hundreds
and thousands of years. Sometimes I lay in thee grieving
because thou didst not recognize me ; sometimes I raised
my head, opened my eyes, and extended my arms calling
thee either tenderly and quietly, or strenuously, de-
manding that thou shouldst rebel against the iron chains
which bound thee to the earth. KRISHNA.

So matters went on, and still go on, in the
Christian world. But we might have hope that
in the immense Brahman, Buddhist, and Confucian

426 A LETTER TO A HINDU

worlds this new scientific superstition would not
establish itself, and that the Chinese, Japanese, and
Hindus, once their eyes were opened to the reli-
gious fraud justifying violence, would advance
directly to a recognition of the law of love inherent
in humanity, and which had been so forcibly enun-
ciated by the great Eastern teachers. But what has
happened is that the scientific superstition replacing
the religious one has been accepted and secured
a stronger and stronger hold in the East.

In your periodical you set out as the basic
principle which should guide the actions of your
people the maxim that: 'Resistance to aggression
is not simply justifiable but imperative, non-
resistance hurts both Altruism and Egotism.*

Love is the only way to rescue humanity from
all ills, and in it you too have the only method
of saving your people from enslavement. In very
ancient times love was proclaimed with special
strength and clearness among your people to be
the religious basis of human life. Love, and
forcible resistance to evil-doers, involve such a
mutual contradiction as to destroy utterly the
whole sense and meaning of the conception of love.
And what follows? With a light heart and in the
twentieth century you, an adherent of a religious
people, deny their law, feeling convinced of your
scientific enlightenment and your right to do so,
and you repeat (do not take this amiss) the amazing
stupidity indoctrinated in you by the advocates
of the use of violence — the enemies of truth, the
servants first of theology and then of science — your
European teachers.

You say that the English have enslaved your
people and hold them in subjection because the
latter have not resisted resolutely enough and have
not met force by force.

A LETTER TO A HINDU 427

But the case is just the opposite. If the English
have enslaved the people of India it is just because
the latter recognized, and still recognize, force as
the fundamental principle of the social order. In
accord with that principle they submitted to their
little rajahs, and on their behalf struggled against
one another, fought the Europeans, the English,
and are now trying to fight with them again.

A commercial company enslaved a nation com-
prising two hundred millions. Tell this to a man
free from superstition and he will fail to grasp
what these words mean. What does it mean that
thirty thousand men, not athletes but rather weak
and ordinary people, have subdued two hundred
million vigorous, clever, capable, and freedom-
loving people? Do not the figures make it clear that
it is not the English who have enslaved the Indians,
but the Indians who have enslaved themselves?

When the Indians complain that the English
have enslaved them it is as if drunkards complained
that the spirit-dealers who have settled among
them have enslaved them. You tell them that they
might give up drinking, but they reply that they
are so accustomed to it that they cannot abstain,
and that they must have alcohol to keep up their
energy. Is it not the same thing with the millions
of people who submit to thousands, or even to
hundreds, of others — of their own or other nations?

If the people of India are enslaved by violence
it is only because they themselves live and have
lived by violence, and do not recognize the eternal
law of love inherent in humanity.

Pitiful and foolish is the man who seeks what he
already has, and does not know that he has it. Yes,
pitiful and foolish is he who does not know the bliss of
love which surrounds him and which I have given him.

KRISHNA.

428 A LETTER TO A HINDU

As soon as men live entirely in accord with the
law of love natural to their hearts and now re-
vealed to them, which excludes all resistance by
violence, and therefore hold aloof from all parti-
cipation in violence — as soon as this happens, not
only will hundreds be unable to enslave millions,
but not even millions will be able to enslave a
single individual. Do not resist the evil-doer and
take no part in doing so, either in the violent deeds
of the administration, in the law courts, the collec-
tion of taxes, or above all in soldiering, and no one
in the world will be able to enslave you.

VI

O ye who sit in bondage and continually seek and
pant for freedom, seek only for love. Love is peace in
itself and peace which gives complete satisfaction. I
am the key that opens the portal to the rarely discovered
land where contentment alone is found. KRISHNA.

What is now happening to the people of the
East as of the West is like what happens to every
individual when he passes from childhood to
adolescence and from youth to manhood. He loses
what had hitherto guided his life and lives without
direction, not having found a new standard suitable
to his age, and so he invents all sorts of occupations,
cares, distractions, and stupefactions to divert his
attention from the misery and senselessness of his
life. Such a condition may last a long time.

When an individual passes from one period of
life to another, a time comes when he cannot go
on in senseless activity and excitement as before,
but has to understand that although he has out-
grown what before used to direct him, this does not
mean that he must live without any reasonable
guidance, but rather that he must formulate for
himself an understanding of life corresponding to

A LETTER TO A HINDU 429

his age, and having elucidated it must be guided by
it. And in the same way a similar time must come
in the growth and development of humanity. I
believe that such a time has now arrived — not in
the sense that it has come in the year 1908, but
that the inherent contradiction of human life has
now reached an extreme degree of tension: on the
one side there is the consciousness of the beneficence
of the law of love, and on the other the existing
order of life which has for centuries occasioned an
empty, anxious, restless, and troubled mode of life,
conflicting as it does with the law of love and built
on the use of violence. This contradiction must be
faced, and the solution will evidently not be favour-
able to the outlived law of violence, but to the
truth wrhich has dwelt in the hearts of men from
remote antiquity : the truth that the law of love
is in accord with the nature of man.

But men can only recognize this truth to its full
extent when they have completely freed themselves
from all religious and scientific superstitions and
from all the consequent misrepresentations and
sophistical distortions by which its recognition has
been hindered for centuries.

To save a sinking ship it is necessary to throw
overboard the ballast, which though it may once
have been needed would now cause the ship to
sink. And so it is with the scientific superstition
which hides the truth of their welfare from man-
kind. In order that men should embrace the
truth — not in the vague way they did in childhood,
nor in the one-sided and perverted way presented
to them by their religious and scientific teachers,
but embrace it as their highest law — the complete
liberation of this truth from all and every super-
stition (both pseudo-religious and pseudo-scientific)
by which it is still obscured is essential: not a

430 A LETTER TO A HINDU

partial, timid at temp t, reckoning with traditions
sanctified by age and with the habits of the people
— not such as was effected in the religious sphere
by Guru-Nanak, the founder of the sect of the
Sikhs, and in the Christian world by Luther, and
by similar reformers in other religions — but a
fundamental cleansing of religious consciousness
from all ancient religious and modern scientific
superstitions.

If only people freed themselves from their beliefs
in all kinds of Ormuzds, Brahmas, Sabbaoths, and
their incarnation as Krishnas and Chris ts, from
beliefs in Paradises and Hells, in reincarnations
and resurrections, from belief in the interference
of the Gods in the external affairs of the universe,
and above all, if they freed themselves from belief
in the infallibility of all the various Vedas, Bibles,
Gospels, Tripitakas, Korans, and the like, and also
freed themselves from blind belief in a variety of
scientific teachings about infinitely small atoms
and molecules and in all the infinitely great and
infinitely remote worlds, their movements and
origin, as well as from faith in the infallibility of the
scientific law to which humanity is at present sub-
jected : the historic law, the economic laws, the law
of struggle and survival, and so on — if people only
freed themselves from this terrible accumulation
of futile exercises of our lower capacities of mind
and memory called the 'Sciences', and from the
innumerable divisions of all sorts of histories, an-
thropologies, homiletics, bacteriologies, jurispru-
dences, cosmographies, strategics— their name is
legion — and freed themselves from all this harmful,
stupifying ballast — the simple law of love, natural
to man, accessible to all and solving all questions
and perplexities, would of itself become clear and
obligatory.

A LETTER TO A HINDU 431

VII

Children, look at the flowers at your feet; do not
trample upon them. Look at the love in your midst
and do not repudiate it. KRISHNA.

There is a higher reason which transcends all human
minds. It is far and near. It permeates all the worlds
and at the same time is infinitely higher than they.

A man who sees that all things are contained in the
higher spirit cannot treat any being with contempt.

For him to whom all spiritual beings are equal to
the highest there can be no room for deception or grief.

Those who are ignorant and are devoted to the religious rites
only, are in a deep gloom, but those who are given up to fruitless
meditations are in a still greater darkness.

UPANISHADS, FROM VEDAS.

Yes, in our time all these things must be cleared
away in order that mankind may escape from self-
inflicted calamities that have reached an extreme
intensity. Whether an Indian seeks liberation from
subjection to the English, or anyone else struggles
with an oppressor either of his own nationality
or of another — whether it be a Negro defending
himself against the North Americans; or Persians,
Russians, or Turks against the Persian, Russian,
or Turkish governments, or any man seeking the
greatest welfare for himself and for everybody else
— they do not need explanations and justifications
of old religious superstitions such as have been
formulated by your Vivekanandas, Baba Bharatis,
and others, or in the Christian world by a number
of similar interpreters and exponents of things
that nobody needs; nor the innumerable scientific
theories about matters not only unnecessary but
for the most part harmful. (In the spiritual realm
nothing is indifferent : what is not useful is harmful.)

What are wanted for the Indian as for the

432 A LETTER TO A HINDU

Englishman, the Frenchman, the German, and the
Russian, are not Constitutions and Revolutions,
nor all sorts of Conferences and Congresses, nor
the many ingenious devices for submarine naviga-
tion and aerial navigation, nor powerful explosives,
nor all sorts of conveniences to add to the enjoy-
ment of the rich, ruling classes; nor new schools and
universities with innumerable faculties of science,
nor an augmentation of papers and books, nor
gramophones and cinematographs, nor those child-
ish and for the most part corrupt stupidities termed
art — but one thing only is needful: the knowledge
of the simple and clear truth which finds place in
every soul that is not stupefied by religious and
scientific superstitions — the truth that for our life
one law is valid — the law of love, which brings the
highest happiness to every individual as well as
to all mankind. Free your minds from those over-
grown, mountainous imbecilities which hinder
your recognition of it, and at once the truth will
emerge from amid the pseudo-religious nonsense
that has been smothering it: the indubitable,
eternal truth inherent in man, which is one and
the same in all the great religions of the world. It
will in due time emerge and make its way to general
recognition, and the nonsense that has obscured it
will disappear of itself, and with it will go the evil
from which humanity now suffers.

Children, look upwards with your beclouded eyes,
and a world full of joy and love will disclose itself to you,
a rational world made by My wisdom, the only real
world. Then you will know what love has done with
you, what love has bestowed upon you, what love
demands from you. KRISHNA.

YASNAYA POLYANA.

December i^th, 1908.

GANDHI LETTERS

To Gandhi.

I HAVE just received your very interesting letter,
which gave me much pleasure. God help our
dear brothers and co-workers in the Transvaal!
Among us, too, this fight between gentleness and
brutality, between humility and love and pride
and violence, makes itself ever more strongly felt,
especially in a sharp collision betwreen religious
duty and the State laws, expressed by refusals to
perform military service. Such refusals occur more
and more often.

I wrote the 'Letter to a Hindu5, and am very
pleased to have it translated. The Moscow people
will let you know the title of the book on Krishna.
As regards 're-birth1 I for my part should not omit
anything, for I think that faith in a re-birth will
never restrain mankind as much as faith in the
immortality of the soul and in divine truth and
love. But I leave it to you to omit it if you wish to.
I shall be very glad to assist your edition. The
translation and diffusion of my writings in Indian
dialects can only be a pleasure to me.

The question of monetary payment should, I think,
not arise in connexion with a religious undertaking.

I greet you fraternally, and am glad to have
come in touch with you. LEO TOLSTOY.

(Undated, but pjobably written in March 19 ro.)

To Count Leo Tolstoy, Ydsnaya Polydna, Russia.

JOHANNESBURG,

4th April 1910.
Dear Sir,

You will remember that I wrote to you from
London, where I stayed in passing. As your very

434 GANDHI LETTERS

devoted adherent I send you together with this
letter, a little book I have compiled in which I
have translated my own writings from Gujarati.
It is worth noting that the Indian government con-
fiscated the original. For that reason I hastened
to publish the translation. I am afraid of burdening
you, but if your health permits and you have time
to look through the book I need not say how much
I shall value your criticism of it. At the same time
I am sending you a few copies of your 'Letter to
a Hindu5 which you allowed me to publish. It has
also been translated into one of the Indian dialects.
Your humble servant,

M. K. GANDHI.

To Mahatma Gandhi.

YASNAYA POLYANA.

8th May 1910.
Dear friend,

I have just received your letter and your book,
Indian Home Rule.

I have read the book with great interest, for I
consider the question there dealt with — Passive
Resistance — to be of very great importance not
only for Indians but for the whole of mankind.

I cannot find your first letter, but in looking for
it have come upon Doke's biography, which much
attracted me and enabled me to know you and
understand you better.

I am not very well at present, and therefore re-
frain from writing all that is in my heart about your
book and about your activity in general, which I
value highly. I will however do so as soon as I am
better.

Your friend and brother,

LEO TOLSTOY.

GANDHI LETTERS 435

To Gandhi, Johannesburg, Transvaal, South Africa.

KOCHETY.
Jth September 79/0.

I received your journal, Indian Opinion, and was
glad to see what it says of those who renounce all
resistance by force, and I immediately felt a wish
to let you know what thoughts its perusal aroused
in me.

The longer I live — especially now when I clearly
feel the approach of death — the more I feel moved
to express what I feel more strongly than anything
else, and what in my opinion is of immense im-
portance, namely, what we call the renunciation
of all opposition by force, which really simply
means the doctrine of the law of love unperverted
by sophistries. Love, or in other words the striving
of men's souls towards unity and the submissive
behaviour to one another that results therefrom,
represents the highest and indeed the only law of
life, as every man knows and feels in the depths of
his heart (and as we see most clearly in children),
and knows until he becomes involved in the lying
net of worldly thoughts. This law was announced
by all the philosophies — Indian as well as Chinese,
and Jewish, Greek and Roman. Most clearly, I
think, was it announced by Christ, who said ex-
plicitly that on it hang all the Law and the Pro-
phets. More than that, foreseeing the distortion
that has hindered its recognition and may always
hinder it, he specially indicated the danger of
a misrepresentation that presents itself to men
living by worldly interests — namely, that they may
claim a right to defend their interests by force or,
as he expressed it, to repay blow by blow and
recover stolen property by force, etc., etc. He
knew, as all reasonable men must do, that any

436 GANDHI LETTERS

employment of force is incompatible with love as
the highest law of life, and that as soon as the use
of force appears permissible even in a single case,
the law itself is immediately negatived. The whole
of Christian civilization, outwardly so splendid, has
grown up on this strange and flagrant — partly
intentional but chiefly unconscious — misunder-
standing and contradiction. At bottom, however,
the law of love is, and can be, no longer valid if
defence by force is set up beside it. And if once the
law of love is not valid, then there remains no law
except the right of might. In that state Christendom
has lived for 1,900 years. Certainly men have
always let themselves be guided by force as the
main principle of their social order. The difference
between the Christian and all other nations is only
this : that in Christianity the law of love had been
more clearly and definitely given than in any other
religion, and that its adherents solemnly recognized
it. Yet despite this they deemed the use of force
to be permissible, and based their lives on violence;
so that the life of the Christian nations presents a
greater contradiction between what they believe
and the principle on which their lives are built:
a contradiction between love which should pre-
scribe the law of conduct, and the employment of
force, recognized under various forms — such as
governments, courts of justice, and armies, which
are accepted as necessary and esteemed. This
contradiction increased with the development of
the spiritual life of Christianity and in recent years
has reached the utmost tension.

The question now is, that we must choose one
of two things — either to admit that we recognize
no religious ethics at all but let our conduct of
life be decided by the right of might; or to demand
that all compulsory levying of taxes be discon-

GANDHI LETTERS 437

tinued, and all our legal and police institutions,
and above all, military institutions, be abolished.

This spring, at a scripture examination in a
Moscow girls' school, first their religious teacher
and then an archbishop who was also present,
questioned the girls on the ten commandments,
especially on the sixth. After the commandments
had been correctly recited the archbishop some-
times put a question, usually: 'Is it always and
in every case forbidden by the law of God to kill?'
And the unfortunate girls, misled by their in-
structor, had to answer and did answer: 'Not
always, for it is permissible in war and at execu-
tions.' When, however, this customary additional
question — whether it is always a sin to kill— was put
to one of these unfortunate creatures (what I am
telling you is not an anecdote, but actually hap-
pened and was told me by an eyewitness) the girl
coloured up and answered decidedly and with
emotion: 'Always!' And despite all the customary
sophistries of the archbishop, she held steadfastly
to it — that to kill is under all circumstances for-
bidden even in the Old Testament, and that Christ
has not only forbidden us to kill, but in general to
do any harm to our neighbour. The archbishop,
for all his majesty and verbal dexterity, was silenced,
and victory remained with the girl.

Yes, we may write in the papers of our progress
in mastery of the air, of complicated diplomatic
relations, of various clubs, of discoveries, of all sorts
of alliances, and of so-called works of art, and we
can pass lightly over what that girl said. But we
cannot completely silence her, for every Christian
feels the same, however vaguely he may do so.
Socialism, Communism, Anarchism, Salvation
Armies, the growth of crime, freedom from toil,
the increasingly absurd luxury of the rich and

438 GANDHI LETTERS

increased misery of the poor, the fearfully rising
number of suicides — are all indications of that
inner contradiction which must and will be re-
solved. And, of course, resolved in such a manner
that the law of love will be recognized and all
reliance on force abandoned. Your work in the
Transvaal, which to us seems to be at the end of
the earth, is yet in the centre of our interest and
supplies the most weighty practical proof, in which
the world can now share, and not only the Christian
but all the peoples of the world can participate.

I think it will please you to hear that here in
Russia, too, a similar movement is rapidly attract-
ing attention, and refusals of military service in-
crease year by year. However small as yet is with
you the number of those who renounce all resist-
ance by force, and with us the number of men who
refuse any military service — both the one and the
other can say : God is with us, and God is mightier
than man.

In the confession of Christianity — even a Chris-
tianity deformed as is that taught among us — and
a simultaneous belief in the necessity of armies
and preparations to slaughter on an ever-increasing
scale, there is an obvious contradiction that cries
to heaven, and that sooner or later, but probably
quite soon, must appear in the light of day in
its complete nakedness. That, however, will either
annihilate the Christian religion, which is indis-
pensable for the maintenance of the State, or it will
sweep away the military and all the use of force
bound up with it — which the State needs no less.
All governments are aware of this contradiction,
your British as much as our Russian, and therefore
its recognition will be more energetically opposed
by the governments than any other activity inimical
to the State, as we in Russia have experienced and

GANDHI LETTERS 439

as is shown by the articles in your magazine. The
governments know from what direction the greatest
danger threatens them, and are on guard with
watchful eyes not merely to preserve their interests
but actually to fight for their very existence.

Yours etc.,

LEO TOLSTOY.

LETTER TO A JAPANESE

I RECEIVED your very interesting letter and de-
cided at once to answer it fully and fundamen-
tally, but ill health and other things have kept me
till now from that, which I regard as a veiy im-
portant matter.

Judging by your mention of your sermon in
church, I conclude that you are a Christian. And
as I am aware that several religious teachings are
current in your country — Shintoism, Confucianism,
Taoism, and Buddhism — I conclude that these
religions are also known to you.

My supposition that you are acquainted with
many religions, makes it possible for me to answer
your doubts in the most definite manner. My
answer will consist in referring you to the eternal
truths of religion : not of this or that religion but
of the one appropriate to all mankind, based not
on the authority of this or that founder — Buddha,
Confucius, Lao-Tsze, Christ, or Mohammed — but
on the indubitable nature of the truth that has
been preached by all the great thinkers of the
world, and that every man not confused by false,
perverted teachings, now feels in his heart and
accepts with his reason.

The teaching expressed by all the great sages of
the world, the authors of the Vedas, Confucius,
Lao-Tsze, Buddha, Christ, and Mohammed, as
well as by the Greek and Roman sages, Marcus
Aurelius, Socrates, and Epictetus — amounts to
this : that the essence of human life is not the body,
but that spiritual element which exists in our bodies
in conditions of time and space — a thing incom-
prehensible, but of which man is vividly conscious,
and which — though the body to which it is bound

LETTER TO A JAPANESE 441

is continually changing and disintegrates at death
— remains independent of time and space and is
therefore unchangeable. Life therefore (and this
is very clearly expressed in the real, unperverted
teaching of Sakya Muni) is nothing but the ever
greater and greater liberation of that spiritual
element from the physical conditions in which it
is confined, and the ever-increasing union, by
means of love, of this spiritual element in ourselves
with the spiritual element in other beings, and with
the spiritual element itself which men call God.
That, I think, constitutes the true religious teaching
common to all men, on the basis oi which I will try
to reply to your questions.

The questionsyou put to me clearly indicate that by
'religion' you do not mean what I consider to be true
religious teaching, but that perversion of it which
is the chief source of human errors and sufferings.

And strange as it may seem, I am convinced
that religion — the very thing that gives man true
welfare — is, in its perverted form, the chief source
of man's sufferings.

You write that refusal to perform army service
may occasion loss of liberty or life to the refusers,
and that a refusal to pay taxes will produce various
materially harmful consequences. And though it
is not given to us men to foresee the consequences
of our actions, I will grant that all would happen
as you anticipate. But all the same, none of these
presumed consequences can have any influence on
a truly religious man's perception of the truth or
of his duty.

I quite see that non-religious people, revolution-
ists, anarchists, or socialists, having a definite
material aim in view — the welfare of the majority
as they understand it — cannot admit the reason-
ableness of refusals to serve in the army or pay

442 LETTER TO A JAPANESE

taxes, which in their view can only cause useless
suffering or even death to the refusers, without
improving the condition of the majority. I quite
understand that attitude in non-religious people.
But for a religious man, living by the spiritual
essence he recognizes in himself, it is different. For
such a man there is not and cannot be any question
of the consequences (no matter what they may be)
of his actions, or of what will happen to his body
and his temporal, physical life. Such a man knows
that the life of his body is not his own life, and that
its course, continuance, and end do not depend on
his will. For such a man only one thing is im-
portant and necessary : to fulfil what is required of
him by the spiritual essence that dwells within him.
And in the present case that spiritual essence de-
mands very definitely that he should not partici-
pate in actions that are most contrary to love — in
murders and in preparation for murders. Very
possibly a religious man in a moment of weakness
may not feel strong enough to fulfil what is de-
manded of him by the law he acknowledges as the
law of his life, and because of that weakness he may
not act as he should. But even so he will always
know where the truth lies, and consequently where
his duty lies, and if he does not act as he should,
he will know that he is guilty and has acted badly,
and will try not to repeat the sin when next he is
tempted. But he will certainly not doubt the possi-
bility of fulfilling the call of the Highest Will, and
will in nowise seek to justify his action or to make
any compromise, as you suggest.

Such a view of life is not only not Utopian — as
it may appear to people of your nation or of the
Christian nations who have lost all reasonable
religious understanding of life — but is natural to
all mankind.

LETTER TO A JAPANESE 443

So that if we were not accustomed to the tem-
porary, almost mad, condition in which all the
nations now exist — armed against one another —
what is now going on in the world would appear
impossibly fantastic, but the refusal of every
reasonable man to participate in this madness
would certainly not seem so.

The condition of darkness in which mankind
now exists would indeed be terrible if in that
darkness people did not more and more frequently
appear who understand what life should and must
be. There are such people, and they recognize
themselves to be free in spite of all the threats and
punishments the authorities can employ; and they
do, not what the insensate authorities demand
of them, but what is demanded of them by the
highest spiritual essence which speaks clearly and
loudly in every man's conscience.

To my great joy now, before my death, I see
every day an ever-increasing number of such
people, living not by the body but by the spirit,
who calmly refuse the demands made by those
who form the government to join them in the ranks
of murderers, and who joyfully accept all the ex-
ternal, bodily tortures inflicted on them for their
refusal. There are many such in Russia — men still
quite young who have been kept for years in the
strictest imprisonment, but who experience the
happiest and most tranquil state of mind, as they
recount in their letters or tell those who see them.
I have the happiness to be in close touch with many
of them and to receive letters from them; and if it
interests you I could send you some of their letters.

What I have said about refusals to serve in the
army relates also to refusals to pay taxes, about
which you write. A religious man may not resist
by force those who take any of the fruits of his

444 LETTER TO A JAPANESE

labour — whether they be private robbers or robbers
that are called 'the government'; but he also may
not of his own accord help in those evidently evil
deeds which are carried out by means of money
taken from the people in the guise of taxes.

To your argument about the necessity of forcibly
protecting a victim tortured or slain before your
eyes, I will reply with an extract from a book, For
Every Day, which I have compiled, and in which
from various points of view I have repeatedly
replied to that very objection. This book may
interest you I think, for in it are expressed all the
fundamentals of that religion which, as I began
by saying, are one and the same in all the great
religious teachings of the world, as well as in the
hearts and minds of all men. Here is the extract:

'It is an astonishing thing that there are people
who consider it the business of their lives to correct
others. Can it be that these correctors are so good
that they have no work left to do in correcting
themselves?'

[Tolstoy does not appear to have quoted the
extract he meant to give. What he generally said
was, that men fond of correcting others are apt to
think they can decide who is good and who is bad,
and may do violence to those they regard as evil-
doers, whereas they ought rather to correct them-
selves and not rely on, or employ, violence. — A. M.]

I will conclude by saying that there is but one
means of improving human life in general: the
ever-increasing elucidation and realization of the
one religious truth common to all men. And at
the same time I will add that I think the Japanese
nation, with its external development, 'civiliza-
tion', 'progress', and military power and glory, is
at present in the saddest and most dangerous condi-
tion; for it is just that external glitter, and the

LETTER TO A JAPANESE 445

adoption from depraved Europe of a 'scientific'
outlook on life, that more than anything else
hinders the manifestation among the Japanese
people of that which alone can give welfare — the
religious truth that is one for all mankind.

The more in detail you answer me, and the more
information you give me — especially about the
spiritual condition of the Japanese people — the
more grateful I shall be to you.

In spite of all external differences —

Your loving brother,

LEO TOLSTOY.
YASNAYA POLYANA.

ijth March 1910.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

i

RELIGION
A BOY and his MOTHER

BOY. Why has nurse dressed herself up to-day
and put this new shirt on me?

MOTHER. Because to-day is a holiday and we are
going to church.

BOY. What holiday is it?

MOTHER. Ascension Day.

BOY. What does 'ascension' mean?

MOTHER. It means that our Lord Jesus Christ
ascended into heaven.

BOY. What does eascendedj mean?

MOTHER. It means that he went up.

BOY. How did he go? On wings?

MOTHER. No, not on wings. He simply went up,
because he is God and God can do anything.

BOY. But where did he go to? Papa told me that
the sky is really only space. There is nothing there
but stars, and beyond the stars other stars, and
what we call the sky has no end. So where did he
go to?

MOTHER [smiling]. One can't understand every-
thing. One must have faith.

BOY. Faith in what?

MOTHER. What older people say.

BOY. But when I said that someone would die
because the salt was spilt, you yourself told me not
to believe what is stupid !

MOTHER. Quite right. You should not believe
anything stupid.

BOY. But how am I to know what is stupid and
what is not?

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 447

MOTHER. You must believe the true faith.

BOY. But what is the true faith?

MOTHER. Our faith. [Aside.] I think I am talking
nonsense. [Aloud.] Go and tell papa that we are
starting, and put on your scarf.

BOY. Shall we have chocolate after the service?

448 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

WAR

KARLCHEN SCHMIDT, $ years old.
P£TYA oRL6v, 10 years old.
MASHA ORL6VA, 8 years old.

KARLCHEN. Our Prussia won't let the Russians
take land from us !

P£TYA. But we say that the land is ours as we
conquered it first.

MASHA. Who are 'we'?

P£TYA. You're only a baby and don't under-
stand. 'We' means the people of our country.

KARLCHEN. It 's like that everywhere. Some men
belong to one country, some to another.

MASHA. Whom do I belong to?

PETYA. To Russia, like all of us.

MASHA. But if I don't want to?

P£TYA. Whether you want to or not you are still
Russian. And every country has its own tsar or
king.

KARLCHEN [interjecting]. Or Parliament. . . .

P£TYA. Each has its own army and each collects
taxes from its own people.

MASHA. But why are they so separated?

P£TYA. What do you mean? Each country is
different.

MAsHA. But why are they so separated?

KARLCHEN. Well, because every man loves his
own fatherland.

MASHA. I don't understand why they are sepa-
rate. Wouldn't it be better to be all together?

P£TYA. To play games it is better to be together,
but this is not play, it is an important matter.

MASHA. I don't understand.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 449

KARLCHEN. You'll understand when you grow
up.

MAsHA. Then I don't want to grow up.
P£TYA. You're little, but you're obstinate al-
ready, like all of them.

459

450 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

3
THE FATHERLAND: THE STATE

GAVRfLA, a servant and an army reservist.
MfsHA, his master' s young son.

GAVRfLA. Well, Mishenka, my dear little master,
good-bye ! I wonder if God will ever let us meet
again.

MfsHA. Are you really going away?

GAVRfLA. Of course! There's war again, and
I'm in the reserve.

MfsHA. Who is the war with? Who is fighting
against whom?

GAVRfLA. Heaven knows! It's too much for me.
I've read about it in the papers but can't under-
stand it all. They say the Austriak is offended that
ours has favoured those — what's their names. . . .

MfsHA. But why do you go? If the tsars have
quarrelled let them do the fighting.

GAVRfLA. How can I help going? It's for Tsar,
Fatherland, and the Orthodox Faith.

MfsHA. But you don't want to go?

GAVRfLA. Who would want to leave wife and
children? And why should I want to go from a
good place like this?

MfsHA. Then why do you go? Tell them you
don't want to go, and won't go. What would they
do to you?

GAVRfLA [laughs]. What would they do? Drag
me off by force !

MfsHA. But who would drag you off?

GAVRfLA. Why, men like myself— men under
orders!

MfsHA. But why would they drag you off if they
are men like yourself?

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 451

GAVRfLA. It's the order of the commanders.
Orders are given, and one is dragged off.

MfsHA. But if they too refuse?

GAVRfLA. They can't help themselves.

MfsHA. Why riot?

GAVRfLA. Why, because . . . because it's the law.

MfsHA. What sort of law?

GAVRfLA. You say such queer things ! I've been
chattering with you too long. It's time for me to
set the samovar for the last time.

452 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

4
TAXES

ELDER.

GRUSHKA, a girl of J.

ELDER enters a poor hut. No one is there except seven-year-old
GRUSHKA. The ELDER looks around.

ELDER. Is no one in?

GRUSHKA. Mamka has gone for the cow, and
Fedka is in the master's yard.

ELDER. Well, tell your mother that the Elder
has been. Say that this is the third time, and that
if she doesn't bring the tax-money without fail by
Sunday I shall take the cow.

GRUSHKA. You'll take our cow? Are you a thief?
We won't let you have it !

ELDER [smiling]. What a clever little girl you
are! What's your name?

GRUSHKA. Grushka.

ELDER. Well, Grushka, you're a bright little girl.
But listen! Tell your mother that I'll take the
cow — although I'm not a thief.

GRUSHKA. But why will you take the cow if
you're not a thief?

ELDER. Because what the law requires must be
paid. I shall take the cow for taxes.

GRUSHKA. What do you mean by taxes?

ELDER. There 's a clever little girl for you ! What
are taxes? Why, taxes are what the Tsar orders
people to pay.

GRtfSHKA. Who tO?

ELDER. Why, to the Tsar of course ! And then
they'll decide where the money shall go.

GRUSHKA. But is the Tsar poor? We are poor and
he is rich. Why does he take taxes from us?

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 453

ELDER. He doesn't take the money for himself,
you little silly. He needs it for us, for our needs:
for the officials, for the army, for education — for
our own good.

GRUSHKA. What good does it do us if you take our
cow? That doesn't do us any good.

ELDER. You'll understand when you grow up.
Mind you tell your mother what I've said.

GR-JSHKA. I'm not going to tell her such rubbish.
If you and the Tsar need anything, do it for your-
selves, and we'll do what we need for ourselves.

ELDER. Ah, when she grows up this girl will be
rank poison !

454 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

5
CONDEMNATION

, 10 years old.
, 9 years old.
SONYA, 6 years old.

MfTYA. I told Peter Semenovich that we could
get used to going without clothes. He said we
couldn't. Then I told him that Michael Ivanovich
says we've accustomed our faces to bearing the
cold and could accustom our whole bodies to
bearing it in the same way. 'Your Michael Ivano-
vich is a fool!' says Peter. [Laughs.] And only
yesterday Michael Ivanovich said to me: 'Peter
Semenovich tells a lot of lies, but what else can one
expect from a fool?' [Laughs.]

ILYIJSHA. I should have said: 'You speak badly
of him and he speaks badly of you.'

MfTYA. But seriously, I don't know which of
them is the fool.

SONYA. They're both fools. A man who says it
of another, is a fool himself.

ILYUSHA. Well, you have just called them both
fools, so you must be one yourself!

MfTYA. I don't like their calling one another
'fool' behind one another's backs. When I grow
up I shan't do that, I shall just say what I think to
people's faces.

iLYtfsHA. I shall too !

s6NYA. And I shall be myself.

MfrYA. What do you mean — 'be myself ?

s6NYA. I mean that I shall say what I think
when I wish to, and if I don't wish to I shan't.

ILYUSHA. Which just shows that you're a fool.

SONYA. You said just now that you weren't going
to say nasty things about people.

. Ah, but I didn't say it behind your back!

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 455

6
KINDNESS

SET }*—«*«•

OLD WOMAN.

and MfsHA are in front of their house, building a hut
for their dolls.

[angrily to M!SHA] . No, not that way ! Take
that stick away. You silly!

OLD WOMAN [comes out onto the porch, crosses herself,

and exclaims] May Christ bless her, what an angel
she is! She's kind to everybody.

[CHILDREN stop playing and look at the OLD WOMAN.]

MfsHA. Who are you speaking of?

OLD WOMAN. Your mother. She remembers God
and has pity on us poor folk. She's just given me
a petticoat as well as some tea and money. May
God and the Queen of Heaven bless her ! She 's
not like that heathen over there, who says : 'There 's
a lot of the likes of you prowling about!' And his
dogs are so savage I hardly got away from them.

MASHA. Who is that?

OLD WOMAN. The man opposite the dram-shop.
Ah, he's hard. But let him be! I'm grateful to
her — sweet dove — who has helped and comforted
me in my sorrow. How could we live at all if there
weren't any people like that? [Weeps.]

MASHA AND MfsHA. Yes, she *s very kind.

OLD WOMAN. When you children grow up, be
like her and don't forget the poor, and then God
won't forget you. [Goes away.]

MfsHA. Poor old woman !

MAsHA. I'm glad mamma gave her something.

MfsHA. I don't know why we shouldn't give
when there is plenty. We don't need it and she
does.

456 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

MAsHA. You remember that John the Baptist
said: 'Let him who has two coats give away one'?

MfsHA. Yes. When I grow up I shall give away
everything.

MASHA. You can't do that !

MfsHA. Why not?

MASHA. What would become of you?

MfsHA. That's all the same to me. If we were
kind to everyone, everything would be all right.

[Leaves his play, goes to the nursery, tears a sheet
out of a note-book, writes something on it, and
puts it in his pocket.

On the sheet was written : *We must be kind.']

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 457

7
DRUNKENNESS

MAKARKA, aged 12.
M ARFtiTKA, aged 6.
PAVIAJSHKA, aged 10.

TEACHER.

MAKARKA and MARFUTKA come out of a house into the street.
MARFUTKA is crying. PAVLUSHKA is standing on the door-
step of a neighbouring house.

PAVLUSHKA. Where the devil are you off to at
this time of night?
MAKARKA. He's drunk again.
PAVLUSHKA. Uncle Prokh6r?
MAKARKA. Who else would it be?
MARFUTKA. He's beating mammy.
MAKARKA. I'm not going in again. He'll be

beating me, too. [Sits down on the threshold.] I'll
spend the night here. I won't go in.

[Silence. MARFUTKA cries.]

PAVLIJSHKA. Oh, shut up ! It's no use. What
can we do? Leave off I tell you!

MARFUTKA [through her tears]. If I were Tsar I'd
thrash those who let him have vodka. I wouldn't
let anyone sell vodka!

MAKARKA. The idea ! The Tsar himself deals in
vodka. He forbids others to sell it so as not to lose
the profit himself.

PAVLUSHKA. Rubbish!

MAKARKA. Rubbish, indeed! Go and ask why
Akulfna was sent to prison. Because she sold vodka
without a licence and caused loss to the Tsar !

PAVLUSHKA. Is that what it was for? They said
it was for something against the law. . . .

MAKARKA. Well, it is against the law to sell
vodka without a licence.

458 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

MARFtJTKA. I wouldn't let anyone sell it. It's

vodka that does all the harm. Sometimes he's all

right, but when he's drunk he beats everybody

terribly.

pAVLtfsHKA. You do say queer things! I'll ask

our teacher to-morrow. He'll know all about it.
MAKARKA. All right. Ask him.

Next morning Prokhor, MAKARKA'S father, having slept off
his drunkenness, has gone out to take a hair of the dog
that bit him. MAKARKA'S mother, her eye swollen and
blackened, has been kneading bread. PAVLUSHKA has
gone to school. The boys have not yet assembled. The
TEACHER is sitting in the porch smoking while the boys
enter the school.

PAVLUSHKA [going up to TEACHER] . Tell me, Evge*ny
Semenich . . . someone told me yesterday that the
Tsar trades in vodka but that Akulina was put in
prison for doing so. Is that true?

TEACHER. Whoever told you that was a fool,
and you were silly to believe him. The Tsar
doesn't trade in anything — that's why he's Tsar.
And Akulina was put in prison for selling vodka
without a licence and so causing a loss to the
Treasury.

PAVLUSHKA. How could she cause a loss?

TEACHER. Because there is an excise-duty on
liquor. A vedro [2-7 gallons] costs the Treasury
two rubles, and it sells at eight rubles and forty
kopeks. The difference goes as revenue for the
government. And that revenue is very large —
seven hundred millions.

PAVLUSHKA. So that the more vodka is drunk
the bigger the revenue?

TEACHER. Of course. If it weren't for this
revenue there wouldn't be enough money for the
army and the schools, and all that we need.

PAVLUSHKA. But if everybody needs these things

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 459

why don't they take the money direct from us?
Why get it through vodka?

TEACHER. 'Why get it through vodka?' Because
that's the law! Well, children, now you're here,
take your places !

460 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

8
CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

PETER PETROVICH, a ProfcSSOT.
MARY A IVANOVNA, IttS Wife.

F£DYA, their son, g years old.

IVAN VAsfLEViCH, the military public prosecutor.

MARYA IVANOVNA is sewing. FEDYA is listening to his father's
conversation.

IVAN VASILEVICH. One cannot deny the lessons
of history. The suppression — that is the elimina-
tion from circulation of perverted people who are
dangerous to society — attains its aim, as we have
seen not only in France after the Revolution, but
at other times in history, and again here and now
in Russia.

PETER PETR6vrcH. No, we cannot be sure of that.
We cannot know the ultimate consequences, and
that assertion does not justify these exceptional
enactments.1

IVAN VASILEVICH. But we have no right to pre-
suppose that the results of the exceptional enact-
ments will be harmful either, or that even if harm
does result it will have been caused by the applica-
tion of these enactments. That is one thing!
Another is that men who have lost all semblance
of humanity and have become wild beasts must be
treated with severity. In the case of that man, for
instance, who calmly cut the throats of an old
woman and her three children just for the sake of
three hundred rubles — how could you deal with
him except by the extreme penalty?

PETER PETR6viOH. I don't absolutely condemn

1 A reference to the State of Enforced Protection (a modified
State of Siege) which at that time overrode the common law
in Russia. — A. M.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 461

the infliction of the death penalty. I only oppose
the courts-martial which inflict it so frequently.
If these repeated executions acted only as a deter-
rent it would be different, but they demoralize
people by making them indifferent to the killing
of their fellow men.

ivAN VAsfLEViCH. Again we do not know the
ultimate consequences, but we do know the bene-
ficial results. . . .

PETER PETROVICH. Beneficial?

ivAN VAsfLEViGH. Yes, we have no right to deny
the immediate benefits. How can society afford
not to deal out retribution according to his deeds
to such a criminal as. ...

PETER PETROVICH. You mean that society should
revenge itself?

IVAN VASILEVICH. Not revenge itself! On the
contrary, replace personal revenge by public
retribution.

PETER PETR6viCH. Yes. But surely it should be
done in a way prescribed by law once for all —
not by exceptional enactment.

IVAN VASILEVICH. Public retribution replaces
that fortuitous, exaggerated, unlawful revenge,
frequently unfounded and mistaken, that private
persons might employ.

PETER PETROVICH [becoming heated]. Then in your
opinion this public retribution is never applied
casually, but is always above suspicion and never
mistaken? No, I can never agree to that! Your
arguments will never convince me or anyone else
that these exceptional enactments under which
thousands have been executed and are still being
executed are reasonable, legitimate, or beneficial.
[Gets up and walks up and down agitatedly.]

FEDYA [to his mother], Mamma, what is papa upset
about?

462 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

MARYA IVANOVNA. Papa thinks it is wrong that
there should be so many executions.

F£DYA. Do you mean that people are put to
death?

MARYA ivANOVNA. Yes. He thinks it should not
be done so often.

FEDYA [going up to his father]. Papa, doesn't it say
in the Ten Commandments: 'Thou shalt not kill'?
Then it ought not to be done at all !

PETER PETROVICH [smiling]. That doesn't refer
to what we are talking about. It means that
individuals should not kill one another.

FEDYA. But when men are executed they are
killed just the same, aren't they?

PETER PETROVICH. Of course; but you must
understand when and why it may be done.

FEDYA. When may it be done?

PETER PETROVICH. Now how can I explain ....
Well, in war for instance. And when a criminal
kills someone, how can he be allowed to go un-
punished ?

F£DYA. But why does the Gospel say we should
love everyone and forgive everyone?

PETER PETROVICH. It would be well if that could
be done — but it can't.

F£DYA. Why not?

PETER PETRiWiCH. Oh, because it can't ! [Turns to
IVAN VAsfLEViCH, who has been smiling as he listened to
F£DYA.] So, my worthy Ivan Vasflevich, I do not, and
cannot, recognize the exceptional enactments and
the courts-martial.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 463

9
PRISONS

SEMKA, 13 years old.
AKSXJTKA, 10 year i old.
MfncA, 10 years old.
PALASHKA, g years old.
VANKA, 8 years old.

The children are sitting by a well after gathering
mushrooms.

AKSUTKA. What a dreadful state Aunt Matrena
was in! And the children! One began to howl
and then they all howled together.

vANKA. Why were they so upset?

PALASHKA. Why? Because their father was being
taken to jail. Enough to make them upset.

vANKA. What's he been sent to jail for?

AKstJTKA. Who knows? They came and told him
to get ready, and took him and led him off. We
saw it all. . . .

SEMKA. They took him for stealing horses.
Demkin's was stolen, and Krasnovs' was his work,
too. Even our gelding fell into his clutches. Do
you think they ought to pat him on the head for it?

AKSUTKA. Yes, I know. But I can't help feeling
sorry for the children. There are four of them
you know, and they're so poor — they haven't even
any bread. They came begging from us to-day.

SEMKA. But then they shouldn't steal.

MfTKA. Yes, but it was the father who did the
stealing, not the children. So why should they
have to go begging?

S£MKA. To teach them not to steal.

MI'TRA. But it wasn't the children, it was their
father.

sfiMKA. Oh, how you keep harping on one string !
'The children— The children!' Why did he do

464 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

wrong? Is he to be allowed to steal because he has

a lot of children?

vANKA. What will they do with him in the jail?

AKSUTKA. Just keep him there — that's all.

VANKA. Will they feed him?

SEMKA. Yes, of course, the damned horse-thief!
What is prison to him? Everything provided and
he sits there comfortably. If only I was Tsar I'd
know how to deal with horse-thieves. I'd teach
them not to steal! But what happens now? He
sits there at ease with friends of his own kind, and
they teach one another how to steal better. My
grandfather was telling us how Petrukha used to
be a good lad, but after he had been in jail just
once he came out such a thorough scoundrel that
it was all up with him. From that time he began. . . .

VANKA. Then why do they lock them up?

SEMKA. Oh, go and ask them!

AKstJTKA. They lock him up and feed him. . . .

SEMKA. So that he should learn his job better !

AKstfTKA. While his children and their mother
starve to death! They're neighbours and I'm
sorry for them. What'll become of them? They
come begging for bread and we can't help giving.

vANKA. Then why do they put people in prison?

SEMKA. What else could be done with them?

vANKA. 'What else could be done'? Well, some-
how ... so that ....

SEMKA. You say 'somehow', but how, you don't
know yourself! Wiser men than you have thought
about it and haven't found a way.

PALASHKA. I think if I was the Tsaritsa. . . .

AKstJTKA [laughs]. Well, what would you do,
Tsaritsa?

PALASHKA. I'd make it so that no one should
steal and the children wouldn't cry.

AKstiTKA. Yes, but how would you do it?

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 465

PALAsHKA. I'd arrange it so that everyone
should have all they need and no one should be
wronged, and everything would be all right for
everybody.

SEMKA. Well done, Tsaritsa! But how would
you do it all?

PALASHKA. I don't know, but I'd do it.

MfTKA. Let's go through the thick birch wood,
shall we? The girls got a lot of mushrooms there
the other day.

SEMKA. That's a good idea. Come on, you
others. And you, Tsaritsa, mind you don't spill
your mushrooms, you're getting too clever by half!

[They get up and set out.]

466 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

10

RICHES

A LANDOWNER.

His WIFE.

Their 6-year-old son, vAsvA.

A TRAMP.

The LANDOWNER and his WIFE are sitting at tea on a balcony
with their daughter and VASYA. A young TRAMP ap-
proaches.

LANDOWNER [to TRAMP]. What is it?

TRAMP [bowing]. You can see what it is, master!
Have pity on a workless man! I'm starving and
in rags. I've been in Moscow, and am begging
my way home. Help a poor man !

LANDOWNER. Why are you in want?

TRAMP. Because I have no money, master.

LANDOWNER. If you worked you wouldn't be
so poor.

TRAMP. I'd be glad to work, but there's no
work to be had nowadays. They're shutting down
everywhere.

LANDOWNER. Other people get work. Why can't
you?

TRAMP. Honest, master, I'd be thankful to get
a job, but I can't get one. Have pity on me,
master! This is the second day I've had nothing
to eat.

LANDOWNER [looks into his purse. To his WIFE] . Avez-
vous de la petite monnaie? Je riai que des assignats.1

MISTRESS [tovAsYA]. Go and look in the bag on
the little table by my bed, there's a good boy.
You'll find a purse there — bring it to me.

VA5YA [does not hear what his mother has said, but
stares at the TRAMP without taking his eyes off him] .

1 Have you any small change? I have nothing but paper
money.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 467

MISTRESS. Vasya, don't you hear? [Pulls him by the
sleeve.] Vasya!

vAsYA. What is it, mamma? [His mother repeats
what she had said. VASYA jumps up.] All right, mamma.
[Goes out, still looking at the TRAMP.]

LANDOWNER [to TRAMP] . Wait a little — in a minute.
[TRAMP steps aside. To his WIFE, in French.] It's dreadful
what a lot of them are going about without work.
It's all laziness — but still it's terrible if he's really
hungry.

MISTRESS. They exaggerate. I hear it's just the
same abroad. In New York, I see, there are about
a hundred thousand unemployed ! Would you like
some more tea?

LANDOWNER. Yes, please, but a little weaker this

time. [He smokes and they are silent.]

[The TRAMP looks at them, shakes his head, and coughs,
evidently wishing to attract their attention.
VASYA runs in with the purse and immediately
looks round for the TRAMP. He gives the purse to
his mother and stares at the man.]

LANDOWNER [taking a threepenny bit from the purse].
Here you — what's your name — take this!

[TRAMP takes off his cap, bows, and takes the coin.]
TRAMP. Thank you for having pity on a poor
man.

LANDOWNER. The chief pity to me is that you
don't get work. If you worked you wouldn't go
hungry. He who works will not want.

TRAMP [putting on his cap and turning away]. It's
true what they say:

'Work bends your back,
But fills no sack.'

[Goes off.]

vAsYA. What did he say?

LANDOWNER. Some stupid peasant proverb:
'Work bends your back, but fills no sack,'
vAsYA. What docs that mean?

468 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

LANDOWNER. It means that work makes a man
bent without his becoming rich.

vAsYA. And is that wrong?

LANDOWNER. Of course it is! Those who loaf
about like that fellow and don't want to work are
always poor. Only those who work get rich.

vAsYA. But how is it we are rich? We don't
work!

MISTRESS [laughing]. How do you know papa
doesn't work?

vAsYA. I don't know. But I do know that we are
very rich, so papa ought to have a lot of work to
do. Does he work very hard?

LANDOWNER. All work is not alike. Perhaps my
work couldn't be done by everyone.

VASYA. What is your work?

LANDOWNER. To have you fed, clothed, and
taught.

vAsYA. But he has to do that, too, for his children.
Then why does he have to go about so miserably
while we are so ....

LANDOWNER [laughing] . Here 's a natural socialist !

MISTRESS. Yes, indeed : lEin Nan kann mehrfragen,
als tausend Weise antworten konnen.9 One fool can ask
more than a thousand sages can answer. Only one
should say 'ein Kind9 instead of 'ein Narr\ And it's
true of every child.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 469

1 1
LOVING THOSE WHO INJURE YOU

MASHA, 10 years old.
vANYA, 8 years old.

MASHA. I was just thinking how nice it would
be if mamma came back now and took us out
driving with her — first to the Arcade and then
to see Nastya. What would you like to happen?

VANYA. Me? I'd like it to be the same as
yesterday.

MASHA. Why, what happened yesterday? Grisha
hit you and then you both cried! There's iv t
much good in that!

vANYA. That's just what there was! It was so
good that nothing could be better. And that's
what I should like to happen again to-day.

MASHA. I don't know what you're talking about.

VANYA. Well, I'll try to explain what I mean.
Do you remember how last Sunday Uncle Pavel
Ivanovich . . . isn't he a dear?

MASHA. Yes, everybody loves him. Mamma says
he's a saint. And that's quite true.

vANYA. Well ... do you remember that last
Sunday he told a story of a man whom everybody
treated badly, and how the worse they treated
him the more he loved them? They abused him,
but he praised them. They beat him, but he helped
them. Uncle said that if people behaved like that
they would feel very happy. I liked that story and
I wanted to be like that man. So when Grisha
hit me yesterday I kissed him. And he cried. And
I felt so happy. But I didn't manage so well with
nurse. She began scolding me, and I forgot how
I ought to behave and was rude to her. And now

470 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

I should like to try again and behave as I did to
Grisha.

MAsHA. You mean you'd like someone to hit you?

VANYA. I should like it very much. I should
do as I did with Grisha, and should feel happy
directly.

MASHA. What rubbish ! You always were stupid
and you still are!

VANYA. That doesn't matter. I know now what
to do to be happy all the time.

MASHA. You little idiot ! But does it really make
you happy to behave like that?

VANYA. Very happy !

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 471

12

THE PRESS

VOL6DYA, a High School pupil, 14 years old.
sbN^A, 75 years old.
MfsHA, 8 years old.

A PORTER.

VOL6DYA is reading and doing homework, SONYA is writing.
The PORTER comes in with a heavy load on his back,
followed by MfsHA.

PORTER. Where shall I put this load, master?
It has almost pulled my arms out of their sockets.

VOL6DYA. Where were you told to put it?

PORTER. Vasili Timofeevich said : Tut it in the
lesson-room for the present till the master comes
himself.'

VOLODYA. Well, then, dump it there in the
corner. [Goes on with his reading. The PORTER puts
down his load and sighs.]

s6NYA. What's that he's brought?

VOLODYA. A newspaper called The Truth.

SONYA. Why is there such a lot of it?

VOL6DYA. It's the file for the whole year. [Goes
on reading.]

MfsHA. People have written all that !

PORTER. True enough ! Those who wrote it must
have worked hard.

VOL6DYA. What did you say?

PORTER. I said that those who wrote it all didn't
shirk work. Well, I'll be going. Please tell them
that I brought the papers. [Goes out.]

s6NYA [tovoL6DYA]. Why does papa want all
those papers?

VOL6DYA. He wants to cut out Bolshakov's
articles.

s6NYA. But Uncle Mikhail Ivanovich says that
Bolshak6v's articles make him sick!

472 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

VOL6DYA. Oh, that's what Uncle Mikhdil
Ivanovich thinks. He reads Verity for AIL

MfsHA. And is uncle's Verity as big as this?

s6NYA. Bigger still ! But this is only for one year,
and it has been coming out for twenty years or
more.

MfsHA. What? Twenty lots like this, and
another twenty?

S6NYA [wishing to astonish MfsHA]. Well, what of it?
Those are only two newspapers. There are thirty
or more of them published.

VOL.6DYA [without lifting his head]. Thirty! There
are five hundred and thirty in Russia alone, and
if you reckon those published abroad — there are
thousands.

MISHA. You couldn't get them into this room?

VOL6DYA. This room ! They'd fill up our whole
street. But please don't keep worrying. I've got
an exam to-morrow, and you're hindering me with
your nonsense. [Reads again.]

MfsHA. I think they oughtn't to write so much.

s6NYA. Why shouldn't they?

MfsHA. Because if it 's the truth, they shouldn't
always be repeating the same thing, and if it's not
true, they oughtn't to write it at all.

s6NYA. So that's what you think!

MfsHA. But why do they write such an awful lot?

VOL6DYA [looking up from his book]. Because with-
out the freedom of the press we shouldn't know the
truth.

MfsHA. But papa says that the truth is in Truth,
and Uncle Mikhail says that Truth makes him sick.
How do they know whether the truth is in Truth or
in Verity?

s6NYA. He's quite right! There are too many
papers, and magazines, and books.

VOL6DYA. How like a woman — always frivolous!

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 473

s6NYA. No! I say there are so many of them
that we can't tell ....

VOL6DYA. Everyone has his reason given him
to judge where the truth is.

MfsHA. Well, if everyone has a reason, then
everyone can judge for himself.

VOL6DYA. So your great mind has pronounced
on the matter! But do please go away somewhere
and stop interrupting me.

474 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

13
REPENTANCE

v6LYA, 8 years old.
FEDYA, i o years old.

v6LYA stands in the passage with an empty plate and is
crying. FEDYA runs in and stops short.

F£ DYA. Mamma told me to see where you were.
What are you crying about? Did you take it to
nurse? [Sees the empty plate and whistles.] Where is the
pudding?

VOLYA. I ... I ... I wanted . . . and suddenly.
. . . Oh, oh, oh, I didn't mean to, but I ate it. ...

F£DYA. You didn't take it to nurse but ate it
yourself? That was a nice thing to do! And
mamma thought you'd like to take it to nurse!

VOLYA. Yes, I did like taking it ... but all of a
sudden ... I didn't mean to ... oh, oh, oh !

F&DYA. You just tasted it and then ate it all up !
That's good! [Laughs.]

VOLYA. Yes, it's all very well for you to laugh.
But how can I tell them. ... I can't tell nurse and
I can't tell mamma. . . .

F£DYA. Well, you've done it — ha — ha — ha — so
you ate it all up! Now what's the use of crying?
You've got to think what to do.

v6LYA. What can I think of? What am I to do?

F^DYA. What a fix ! [Tries not to laugh. Silence.]

v6LYA. What shall I do? It's terrible! [Sobs.]

F£DYA. What are you so upset about? Stop
crying, do ! Just go and tell mamma you took it.

VOLYA. That would make it worse.

F£DYA. Well, then, go and confess to nurse.

v6LYA. How can I?

F£DYA. Listen, then! You stay here, and I'll run
to nurse and tell her. She won't mind.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 475

v6LYA. No, don't say anything to her. How can
I tell her?

F£DYA. Oh, rubbish! You've done wrong — but
what's to be done? I'll just go and tell her. [Runs
off.]

VOLYA. F^dya! Fedya! Wait! . . . Oh, he's
gone. ... I only meant to taste it, and then — I don't
remember how — but I ate it all up! What shall
I do? [Sobs.]

F£DYA comes running.

FEDYA. That's enough crying! I told you nurse
would forgive you. She only said: 'Oh, my poor
darling!'

v6LYA. But isn't she angry?

F£DYA. She didn't think of being angry ! 'The
Lord be with him and the pudding!' she said. 'I'd
have given it him myself.'

v6LYA. But you see I didn't mean to do it!
[Begins to cry again.]

F£DYA. What's the matter now? We won't tell
mamma, and nurse has forgiven you !

VOLYA. Yes, nurse has forgiven me. She's kind
and good. But I'm bad, bad, bad! That's what
makes me cry.

476 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

'4
ART

A FOOTMAN.

The HOUSEKEEPER.

PAVEL, the butler's assistant.
NATASHA, 8 years old.
NfNA, a High School girl.
SENECHKA, a High School boy.

FOOTMAN [carrying a tray]. Almond-milk with the
tea, and some rum !

HOUSEKEEPER [knitting a stocking and counting the
stitches]. . . . Twenty- two, twenty- three. . . .

FOOTMAN. Do you hear, Avdotya Vasilevna?
Hey, Avdotya Vasf levna !

HOUSEKEEPER. I hear, I hear! Directly! I can't
tear myself in half. [To NATASHA] I'll get you a plum
in a minute, dear. Only give me time. I'll get
the milk ready first. [Strains the milk.]

FOOTMAN [sitting down]. Well, I saw quite enough
of it ! Whatever do they pay their money for?

HOUSEKEEPER. What are you talking about?
Did they go to the theatre? It seems to have been
a long play to-day.

FOOTMAN. The opera is always long. You sit and
sit. . . . They were good enough to let me see it. I
was surprised ! [pAvEL comes in bringing some plums, and
stops to listen.]

HOUSEKEEPER. Then there was singing?

FOOTMAN. Yes, but what singing! Just stupid
shouting — not like anything real at all. 'I love her
very much,' he says — and shouts it as loud as he
can, not a bit like anything real. And then they
quarrel and have a fight, and then start singing
again. ^

HOUSEKEEPER. But a season-ticket for the opera
costs a lot they say..

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 477

FOOTMAN. For our box they pay three hundred
rubles for twelve performances.

pAvEL [shaking his head]. Three hundred rubles!
Who gets the money?

FOOTMAN. Those who sing get a lot, of course.
They say that a prima-donna earns fifty thousand
rubles in a year.

pAvEL. Not to speak of thousands — three hun-
dred rubles is a tremendous lot of money to a
peasant. Some of us struggle all our lives and can't
save three hundred rubles or even a hundred.

NINA comes into the pantry.

NINA. Is Natasha here? Where have you been?
Mamma is asking for you.

NATASHA [eating a plum]. I'll come in a minute.

NfNA [to PAVEL] . What did you say about a
hundred rubles?

HOUSEKEEPER. Semen Nikolaevich [pointing to the
FOOTMAN] was telling us about the singing at the
opera to-day and how highly the singers are paid,
and Pavel here was surprised. Is it true, Nina
Mikhailovna, that a singer gets as much as twenty-
five thousand rubles?

N!NA. Even more! One singer was offered a
hundred and fifty thousand rubles to go to America.
And that's not all. In the papers yesterday it was
reported that a musician received twenty-five
thousand rubles for a finger-nail.

pAvEL. They'll print anything! Is such a thing
possible?

NfNA [with evident satisfaction] . It 's true, I tell you.

pAvEL. But why did they pay him that for a nail?

NATASHA. Yes, why?

NfNA. Because he was a pianist and was insured,
so that if anything happened to his hand and he
couldn't play he got paid for it.

pAvEL. What a business!

4?8 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

S£NECHKA, a sixth-form High School boy, enters.

S£NECHKA. What a congress you have here!
What's it all about? [N*NA tells him.]

S^NECHKA [with even greater satisfaction] . I know a
better one than that ! A dancer in Paris has insured
her legs for two hundred thousand rubles in case
she injures them and can't work.

FOOTMAN. Those are the people, if you'll excuse
my saying so, who do their work without breeches!

PAVEL. There's work for you! Fancy paying
them money for it!

SENECHKA. But not everybody can do it remem-
ber, and think how many years it takes them to
learn it.

pAvEL. Learn what? Something good, or how
to twirl their legs?

siNECHKA. Oh, you don't understand. Art is
a great thing.

pAvEL. Well, I think it's all rubbish! And it's
the fat folk who have such mad money to throw
away. If they had to earn it as we do, with a bent
back, there wouldn't be any of those dancers and
singers. The whole lot of them aren't worth a
farthing.

S£NECHKA. What a thing it is to have no educa-
tion ! To him Beethoven, and Viardo, and Raphael
are all rubbish.

NAT ASH A. And I think that what he says is true.

NfNA. Let us go. Come along !

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 479

15
SCIENCE

A schoolboy of 15, on the modern side of the school.
A schoolboy of 16, on the classical side.

MODERNIST. What good is Latin and Greek to
me? Everything good, or of any importance, has
been translated into modern languages.

CLASSICIST. You will never understand the Iliad
unless you read it in Greek.

MODERNIST. But I have no need to read it at all,
and I don't want to.

VOL6DYA. What is the Iliad?

MODERNIST. A story.

CLASSICIST. Yes, but there isn't another story
like it in the world.

PETRUSHA. What makes it so good?

MODERNIST. Nothing. It's just a story like any
other.

CLASSICIST. You'll never get a real understanding
of the past unless you know those stories.

MODERNIST. In my opinion that is just as much
a superstition as the superstition called theology.

CLASSICIST [growing heated]. Theology is falsehood
and nonsense, but this is history and wisdom.

VOL6DYA. Is theology really nonsense?

CLASSICIST. What are you joining in for? You
don't understand anything about it.

VOL6DYA AND PETRIJSHA [together, offended] . Why

don't we understand?

VOL6DYA. Perhaps we understand better than
you do.

CLASSICIST. Oh, all right, all right! But sit still

480 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

and don't keep interrupting our conversation.
[To the MODERNIST.] You say the ancient languages
have no application to modern life. But the same
can be said about bacteriology and chemistry and
physics and astronomy. What good is it to know
the distances of the stars, and their sizes, and all
those details that are of no use to anyone?

MODERNIST. Why do you say such knowledge is
no good? It is very useful.

CLASSICIST. What for?

MODERNIST. What for? All sorts of things —
navigation, for instance.

CLASSICIST. You don't need astronomy for that!

MODERNIST. Well, how about the practical ap-
plication of science to agriculture, medicine, and
industry. . . .

CLASSICIST. That same knowledge is also utilized
in making bombs, and in wars, and is used by
the revolutionaries. If it made people live better
lives. . . .

MODERNIST. And are people made better by your
sort of science?

VOL6DYA. What sort of science does make people
better?

CLASSICIST. I told you not to interrupt the con-
versation of your elders. You only talk nonsense.

VOL6DYA AND PETRUSHA [together]. But non-

sense or not, what sciences make people live better?

MODERNIST. There are no such sciences. Every-
one must do that for himself.

CLASSICIST. Why do you bother to talk to them?
They don't understand anything.

MODERNIST. Why not? [to VQLODYAand PETRtrsiiA],

They don't teach one how to live in the High
School.

VOL6DYA. If they don't teach that, then there is
no need to study.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 481

PETRTJSHA. When we grow bigger we won't learn

unnecessary things.

VOLODYA. But we will live better ourselves.
CLASSICIST [laughing]. See how these sages have

summed it all up !

450

482 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

16
GOING TO LAW

A PEASANT.

His WIFE.

His son's GODFATHER.

)-*-*•

PEASANT [entering hut and taking off his things]. Lord,
what weather ! I could hardly get there.

WIFE. Yes, it's a long way off! It must be some
fifteen versts.

PEASANT. It's quite twenty. [To F£DOR.] Go and
put up the horse.

WIFE. Well, have they awarded it to us?

PEASANT. The devil of an award! There's no
sense in it at all.

GODFATHER. What's it all about, friend? I don't
understand.

PEASANT. Well, you see it 's like this ; Averyan has
grabbed my kitchen-garden and says it's his, and
I can't get the matter settled.

WIFE. We've been at law about it for two years.

GODFATHER. I know, I know. It was being tried
by the local court last Lent. But I heard that it
was settled in your favour.

PEASANT. Yes, that's so, but Averyan went to
the Land Captain, and he sent the case back for
re- trial. So I went before the Judges, and they,
too, decided in my favour; that should have settled
it. But no, they've reconsidered it now and given
it to him. There 's fine judges for you !

WIFE. Well, what's going to happen now?

PEASANT. I'm not going to let him take what's
mine. I shall take the matter to a higher Court.
I've spoken to a lawyer about it already.

1HE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 4^3

GODFATHER. But suppose the higher Court goes
his way, too?

PEASANT. Then I'll take it higher still! I won't
give way to that fat-bellied devil, if I have to part
with my last cow. He shall learn who he's up
against.

GODFATHER. What a curse these judges are — a
real curse! But what if they also decide in his
favour?

PEASANT. I'll take it to the Tsar. . . . But I must
go and give the horse his hay. [Goes out.]

PETKA. And if the Tsar decides against us, who
is there to go to then?

WIFE. Beyond the Tsar there's nobody.

P£TKA. Why do some of them award it to
Averyan and others to daddy?

WIFE. It must be because they don't know
themselves.

P£TKA. Then why do we ask them, if they don't
know?

WIFE. Because no one wants to give up what
belongs to him.

P£TKA. When I grow up I know what I'll do. If
I disagree with anybody about anything we'll draw
lots to see who is to have it. Whoever gets it, that
will be the end of it. I always do that with Akiilka.

GODFATHER. And perhaps that's the best way,
really ! Settle it without sin.

WIFE. So it is. What haven't we spent over that
bit of ground — more than it 's worth ! Oh, it 's a
sin — a sin!

484 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

CRIMINAL LAW

GRfsHKA, 1 2 years old.
SLMKA, 10 years old.
TfsHKA, 13 years old.

TfsHKA. They'll put him in prison so that he
doesn't sneak into someone else's corn-bin again.
He'll be afraid to do it another time.

SEMKA. It's all right if he really did do it, but
Grandpa Mikfta was saying that Mitrofan was sent
to jail quite wrongly.

TISHKA. What do you mean — wrongly? Won't
the man who sentenced him wrongly be punished?

GRfsHKA. They won't pat him on the head for
it if he sentenced him wrongly. He'll be punished,
too.

SEMKA. But who will punish him ?

TISHKA. Those who are above him.

SEMKA. And who is above him?

TISHKA. The authorities.

SEMKA. But suppose the authorities make a mis-
take, too?

GRISHKA. There are still higher authorities who
will punish them. That 's why there is a Tsar.

SEMKA. And if the Tsar makes a mistake who'll
punish him?

TfsHKA. 'Who will punish? Who will punish?'
We know. . . .

GRfsHKA. God will punish him.

S£MKA. Then surely God will punish the man
\vho climbed into the corn-bin? So God and God
alone ought to punish anyone who is guilty. God
will make no mistakes.

TISHKA. But you see it can't be done like that !

SEMKA. Why not?

TfsHKA. Because. . . .

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 485

IS
PRIVATE PROPERTY

An Old CARPENTER.
A BOY of 7.

The old CARPENTER is mending the rails of a balcony. The
son of the owner is watching him and admiring his work.

BOY. How well you do it ! What's your name?

CARPENTER. Well, they used to call me Khrolka,
but now they call me Khrol. My other name is
Savich.

BOY. How well you work, Khrol Savich!

CARPENTER. What's worth doing at all is worth
doing well. What pleasure is there in bad work?

BOY. Have you got a balcony at your house?

CARPENTER [laughing], A balcony ! Ah, my boy,
such a balcony as yours can't compare with! One
with neither window nor door, neither roof nor
walls nor floor. That's what our balcony is like.

BOY. You're always making jokes ! No, but really
and truly, have you got a balcony like this? I
want to know.

CARPENTER. A balcony? Why, my dear little
chap, how could the likes of us have a balcony?
It 's a mercy if we have as much as a roof over our
heads — as for a balcony! I've been trying to build
myself a hut ever since the spring. I pulled down
the old one, but I can't get the new one finished.
It hasn't got a roof on yet and it stands there
rotting.

BOY [surprised J. Why is that?

CARPENTER. Simply because I'm not strong
enough.

BOY. What do you mean — not strong enough?
You work for us, don't you?

488 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

What work can she do? There's only me to do all
the work — and that crowd around me crying for
food. . . .

LADY. Are there really seven children?

OLD WOMAN. May I die if there aren't! The
eldest is only just beginning to help a little, the
rest are all too small.

LADY. But why has she had so many?

OLD WOMAN. What can you expect? He is living
near by in the town — comes home for a visit or
on a holiday . . . and they are young people. If
only he were taken somewhere far away !

LADY. Yes. Some mourn because they have
no children or because their children die, but you
mourn because there are so many.

OLD WOMAN. So many, so many ! More than we
have strength for. But you will give her some hope,
lady?

LADY. Very well. I was godmother to the others,
and I will be to this one, too. Is it a boy?

OLD WOMAN. A boy, little but healthy. He cries
like anything. . . . Will you fix the time?

LADY. Have it whenever you like.

[OLD WOMAN thanks her and goes away.]

xANiCHKA. Mamma, why is it some people have
children and others not? You have and Matrena
has, but Parasha hasn't.

LADY. Parasha isn't married. Children are born
when people are married. They marry, become
husband and wife, and then children are born.

xANiCHKA. Always?

LADY. No, not always. Cook has a wife, you
know, but they have no children.

TANICHKA. But couldn't it be arranged so that
people who want children should have them and
those who don't want them shouldn't have them?

BOY. What stupid things you ask I

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 489

Not stupid at all! I think that if
Matrena's daughter doesn't want children, it would
be better to arrange that she shouldn't have them.
Can't that be done, mamma?

BOY. You talk nonsense, silly. You don't know
anything about it.

TANICHKA. Can't it be done, mamma?

LADY. How can I tell you? We don't know. . . .
It depends on God.

TANICHKA. But what causes children to be born?

BOY [laughs]. AgOat!

TANIGHKA [offended]. There's nothing to laugh
at. I think that if children make it hard for people,
as Matrena says, it ought to be arranged that they
shouldn't be born. Nurse hasn't any children and
never has had.

LADY. But she isn't married. She has no husband.

TANIGHKA. So should all be who don't wish to
have children. Or else what happens? Children
are born and there's nothing to feed them on.
[LADY exchanges glances with the boy and is silent.] When
1 am grown up I will certainly marry and arrange
to have just a girl and a boy — and no more. It isn't
right that there should be children and they
shouldn't be loved ! How I shall love my children !
Really, mamma! I will go to nurse and ask her
about it. [Goes away.]

LADY [to her son]. Yes, how goes the saying?
'Out of the mouths of babes' . . . how is it? 'there
comes truth.' What she said is quite true. If only
people understood that marriage is an important
matter and not an amusement — that they should
marry not for their own sakes but for their chil-
dren's— we should not have those horrors of aban-
doned and neglected children, and it would not
happen as with Matrena's daughter, that children
are not a joy but a grief.

490 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

2O
EDUCATION

A PORTER.

NIKOLAY, a High School boy of 15.
KATYA, aged 7.
Their MOTHER.

The PORTER is polishing the door-knobs. KATYA is building
a toy house with little bricks. NIKOLAY enters and flings
down his books.

NIKOLAY. Damn them all and their blasted High
School!

PORTER. What's the matter?

NIKOLAY. They've given me a one1 again, devil
take them! There'll be another row. Much good
their damned geography is to me. Where is some
Clifornia [California] or other! Why the devil must
I know that?

PORTER. And what will they do to you?

NIKOLAY. Keep me back in the same class again.

PORTER. But why don't you learn your lessons?

NIKOLAY. Because I can't learn rubbish — that's
why. Oh, let them all go to blazes! [Throws
himself into a chair.] I'll go and tell mamma that I
can't go on, and there's an end of it. Let them do
what they like, but I can't go on. And if she won't
take me out of the school — by God, I'll run away!

PORTER. Where will you run to?

NIKOLAY. I'll run away from home. I'll hire
myself out as a coachman or a yard-porter ! Any-
thing would be better than that rot.

PORTER. But a porter's job isn't easy, you know.
Getting up early, chopping the wood, carrying it in
and stoking the fires.

NIKOLAY. Phew! [Whistles.] That's a holiday!
1 The lowest mark. The highest was five.— A. M.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 491

Splitting logs is a nice job. You won't put me off
with that. It's an awfully nice job. You should
just try to learn geography!

PORTER. Really? But why do they make you
doit?

NIKOLAY. You may well ask why! There's no
'why' about it — it's just the custom. They think
people can't get along without it.

PORTER But you must learn, or you'll never get
into the Service and receive a grade and a salary
like your papa and your uncle.

NIKOLAY. But suppose I don't want to?

KATYA. Yes, suppose he doesn't want to?
MOTHER enters with a note in her hand.

MOTHER. The Headmaster writes that you've
got a one again! That won't do, Nikolenka. It's
one of two things: either you study or you don't.

NIKOLAY. Of course it 's one or the other. I can't,
I can't, I can't! Let me leave school for God's
sake, mamma ! I simply can't learn.

MOTHER. Why can't you?

NIKOLAY. I just can't ! It won't go into my head.

MOTHER. It won't go into your head because
you don't concentrate. Stop thinking about rub-
bish, and think of your lessons.

NIKOLAY. I'm in earnest, mamma. Do let me
leave! I don't ask for anything else, only set me
free from this horrible studying — this drudgery. I
can't stand it!

MOTHER. But what will you do?

NIKOLAY. That's my affair.

MOTHER. No, it 'snot your affair, it's mine. lam
answerable to God for you, and I must have you
educated.

NIKOLAY. But supposing I can't be educated?

MOTHER [severely]. What nonsense! I appeal to
you as your mother, for the last time, to turn over

492 THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN

a new leaf and do what is demanded of you. If you

don't listen to me I shall have to take other steps.

NIKOLAY. I have told you I can't and don't
want to.

MOTHER. Take care, Nikolay!

NIKOLAY. There's nothing to take care of! Why
do you torment me? You don't understand.

MOTHER. Don't dare to speak to me like that!
How dare you? Leave this room at once! And
take care!

NIKOLAY. All right, I'll go. I'm not afraid of
anything and I don't want anything from you.
[Runs out, slamming the door.]

MOTHER [to herself] . He worries me to death.
But I know what it all comes from. It 's all because
he won't concentrate on the necessary things, but
fills his head with rubbish — the dogs and the hens.

KATYA. But mamma, don't you remember you
yourself told me how impossible it was to stand
in a corner and not think of a white bear?

MOTHER. I'm not talking about that. I'm saying
he must learn what he is told to.

KATYA. But he says he can't.

MOTHER. He talks nonsense.

KATYA. But he doesn't say he doesn't want to
do anything; only he doesn't want to learn geo-
graphy. He wants to work. He wants to be a
coachman or a porter.

MOTHER. If he were a porter's son he might be
a porter, but he is your father's son and so he
must study.

KATYA. But he doesn't want to !

MOTHER. Whether he wants to or not, he must.

KATYA. But supposing he can't?

MOTHER. Mind you don't follow his example!

KATYA. But that's exactly what I shall do. I
won't on any account learn what I don't want to.

THE WISDOM OF CHILDREN 495

MOTHER. Then you will be an ignorant fool.
[Silence.]

KATYA. When I grow up and have children of
my own I won't on any account force them to learn.
If they want to study I shall let them, but if they
don't I shan't make them.

MOTHER. When you grow up you'll do nothing
of the kind.

K^TYA. I certainly shall.

MOTHER. You won't, when you grow up.

KATYA. Yes I shall, I shall, I shall!

MOTHER. Then you'll be a fool.

KATYA. Nurse says, God needs fools.

THOUGHTS SELECTED FROM
PRIVATE LETTERS

TWO VIEWS OF LIFE

ERE are only two strictly logical views of life :
J. one a false one, which understands life to mean
those visible phenomena that occur in our bodies
from the time of birth to the time of death ; the
other a true one, which understands life to be
the invisible consciousness which dwells within us.
One view is false, the other true, but both are
logical.

The first of these views, the false one which
understands life to mean the phenomena visible
in our bodies from birth till death, is as old as the
world. It is not, as many people suppose, a view
of life produced by the materialistic science and
philosophy of our day; our science and philosophy
have only carried that conception to its farthest
limits, making more obvious than ever the in-
compatibility of that view of life with the funda-
mental demands of human nature, but it is a very
old and primitive view, held by men on the lowest
level of development. It was expressed by Chinese,
by Buddhists, and by Jews, and in the Book of
Job.

This view is now expressed as follows: Life is
an accidental play of the forces in matter, showing
itself in time and space. What we call our con-
sciousness is not life, but a delusion of the senses
which makes it seem as if life lay in that conscious-
ness. Consciousness is a spark which under certain
conditions is ignited in matter, burns up to a flame,
dies down, and at last goes out altogether. This
flame (i.e. consciousness), attendant upon matter

THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS 495
for a certain time between two infinities of time, is
— nothing. And though consciousness perceives itself and
the whole universe, and sits in judgement on itself and
on the universe , and sees the play of chance in this universe,
and, above all, calls it a play of chance in contradistinction
to something which is not chance — this consciousness
itself is only an outcome of lifeless matter — a phan-
tom appearing and vanishing without meaning or
result. Everything is the outcome of ever-changing
matter, and what we call life is but a condition of
dead matter.

That is one view of life. It is a perfectly logical
view. According to this view, man's reasonable
consciousness is but an accident incidental to a
certain state of matter, and therefore what we- in
our consciousness call life, is but a phantom. Only
dead matter exists. What we call life is the play
of death.

The other view of life is this. Life is only what I
am conscious of in myself. And I am always con-
scious of my life not as something that has been or
will be (that is how I reflect on my life), but when
I am conscious of it I feel that I am — never beginning
anywhere, never ending anywhere. With the con-
sciousness of my life, conceptions of time and space
do not blend. My life manifests itself in time and
space, but that is only its manifestation. Life itself,
as I am conscious of it, is something I perceive apart
from time and space. So that in this view of life
we get just the contrary result: not that conscious-
ness of life is a phantom, but that everything re-
lating to time and space is of the nature of a
phantom.

Therefore, in this view, the cessation of my
physical existence in time and space has no reality,
and cannot end or even hinder my true life. And
according to this view death does not exist.

496 THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS
MATTER IS THE LIMIT OF SPIRIT

The material form in which the awakening of
our consciousness of true life finds us in this world
is, so to speak, the boundary limiting the free
development of our spirit.

Matter is the limit of spirit. But true life is the
destruction of this limitation.

In this understanding of life lies the very essence
of the understanding of truth — that essence which
gives man the consciousness of eternal life.

Materialists mistake that which limits life, for
life itself.

THE SCAFFOLDING

We must remind ourselves as often as possible
that our true life is riot this external, material life
that passes before our eyes here on earth, but that
it is the inner life of our spirit, for which the visible
life serves only as a scaffolding — a necessary aid to
our spiritual growth. The scaffolding itself is only
of temporary importance, and after it has served
its purpose is no longer wanted but even becomes
a hindrance.

Seeing before him an enormously high and
elaborately constructed scaffolding, while the build-
ing itself only just shows above its foundations, man
is apt to make the mistake of attaching more im-
portance to the scaffolding than to the building for
the sake of which alone this temporary scaffolding
has been put up.

We must remind ourselves and one another that
the scaffolding has no meaning or importance
except to render possible the erection of the build-
ing itself.

THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS 497
THE LIFE OF THE SPIRIT

There are moments when one ceases to believe in
spiritual life.

This is not unbelief, but rather periods of belief
in physical life.

A man suddenly begins to be afraid of death.
This always happens when something has befogged
him and he once more begins to believe that bodily
life is real life, just as in a theatre you may forget
yourself and think that what you see on the stage
is actually happening, and so may be frightened
by what is done there.

That is what happens in life.

After a man has understood that his life is not on
the stage but in the stalls — that is, not in his per-
sonality but outside it — it sometimes happens that,
from old habit, he suddenly succumbs again to the
seduction of illusion and feels frightened.

But these moments of illusion are not enough to
convince me that what goes on before me (in my
physical life) is really happening.

At times when one's spirit sinks one must treat
oneself as one treats an invalid — and keep quiet !

THE FEAR OF DEATH

It is generally supposed that there is something
mystical in our view of life and death. But there is
nothing of the kind.

I like my garden, I like reading a book, I like
caressing a child. By dying I lose all this, and there-
fore I do not wish to die, and I fear death.

It may be that my whole life consists of such
temporary worldly desires and their gratification.
If so I cannot help being afraid of what will end
these desires. But if these desires and their gratifica-
tion have given way and been replaced in me by

498 THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS
another desire — the desire to do the will of God, to
give myself to Him in my present state and in any

Eossible future state — then the more my desires
ave changed the less I fear death, and the less
does death exist for me. And if my desires be
completely transformed, then nothing but life
remains and there is no death. To replace what
is earthly and temporary by what is eternal is the
way of life, and along it we must travel. But in
what state his own soul is — each one knows for
himself.

THE WAY TO KNOW GOD AND THE SOUL

God and the Soul are known by me in the same
way that I know infinity : not by means of defini-
tions but in quite another way. Definitions only
destroy for me that knowledge. Just as I know
assuredly that there is an infinity of numbers, so do
I know that there is a God and that I have a soul.
For me this knowledge is indubitable, simply be-
cause I am led to it unavoidably.

To the certainty of the infinity of numbers I am
led by addition.

To the certain knowledge of God I am led by
the question, 'Whence come I?'

To the knowledge of the soul I am led by the
question, 'What am I?'

And I know surely of the infinity of numbers, and
of the existence of God and of my soul, when I am
led to the knowledge of them by these most simple
questions.

To one I add one, and one more, and another
one, and another one; or I break a stick in two, and
again in two, and again, and again — and I cannot
help knowing that number is infinite.

I was born of my mother, and she of my grand-
mother, and she of my great-grandmother, but

THOUGHTS FROM PRIVATE LETTERS 499
the very first — of whom? And I inevitably arrive
at God.

My legs are not I, my arms are not I, my head
is not I, my feelings are not I, even my thoughts
are not I : then what am I? I am I, I am my soul.

From whatever side I approach God it will
always be the same. The origin of my thoughts, my
reason, is God. The origin of my love is also He.
The origin of matter is He, too.

It is the same with the conception of the souL
If I consider my striving after truth, I know that
this striving after truth is my immaterial basis — my
soul. If I turn to my feelings of love for goodness,
I know that it is my soul which loves.

INDEX TO THIS VOLUME

Abraham, Gerald, xiv.
Abyssinia, 197.
Alexander I, 19.

— II, 303-

Amiel, 238.

Anna Karenina, 52.

'Ant Brothers', 42.

Arnold, Matthew, xv, 188.

Ascension, the, 446.

Belshazzar, Feast of, 123.
Birukov, P. I., 56.
Boer War, 227.
Bondarcv, T., 189.
Boyhood and Youth, 5.
Brandes, G. M., 362.
Bryullov, K. P., 81.
Buddha, 261.

Carpenter, Edward, xx, 1 76.
Centenary Edition, viii, xxviii.
Channing, W. E., 213.
Chertkov, V. G., viii, x.
Childhood, 33.
'Christianity of beef-steaks',

123.

Comte, A., 181, 369.
Confession, vii, ix, xix.
Considerant, V. P., 229.
Crosby, Ernest Howard, 249,

307-
Crusades, the, 366.

Daily Telegraph, xvi, xvii.
Decembrists, the, 303.
Dibitch, 254, 255.
Dillon, Dr. E. J., xvii.
Doke, 434.
D61okhov, 40.
Dostoevski, 81.
Doukhobors, xxvi.

Dreyfus, 367-8.

Drozhin, 243-4.

Dumas, A., Jils, 136, 154 et
seq., 162, 170.

Durnovo, Minister of Inte-
rior, xvii.

Encyclical of Pope Leo XIII,

97-

Engelhardt, Varvara, 10, 12.
Epictetus, 249, 440.
Erckmann-Chatrian, 215.
£rgolski, Tatiana Alexan-

drovna ('Auntie Tatiana'),

13, 16, 24, 26, 27, 28.
Essays on Arty xxiii.
Ethics of Diet, The, 124, 134,

135-

Fanfaronov Hill, 43.

Fedor Ivanovich, 8, 32, 39,

41, 42, 51.
Fet, A., 365.

Feuillet, Octave, 100, 101.
Final Struggle, The, xiv, xxvii.
Flammanon, 219.
Fleugel, Maurice, 233.
For Every Day, 444.
France, Anatole, 209.
Frederick the Great, 229,

373-

Gandhi, xxv-xxvi, 413-15,

433 et seq.

Garrod, H. W., xv, xxviii.
George, Henry, xxi, 189 ct

seq., 277 et seq., 284 et

seq., 301, 305.
Gervinus, G. G., 355, 357.
Goethe, 338, 374, 377, 380.
G6gol, 52.

502

INDEX TO THIS VOLUME

Gorchak6v, Prince AlexeV
Ivanovich, Minister of
War, 17.

— , — Andrew Ivanovich, 17.

Great Iniquity, A, xxi.

Grisha, 28.

Haeckel, Ernst, 64, 65.
Hague Peace Conference,

210, 226.
Hallam, H., 309.
Hardouin, J., 224.
Harsnet, Dr. Samuel, 325.
Hazlitt, William, 309.
Herzen, 105, 106.
Hindu Kuraly 421.
Homer, 355.
Hugo, Victor, 310, 380.
Huxley, Thomas, 240.

/ Cannot Be Silent, xxiv.
Iliad, The, 479.
Istenev, 30, 31, 36, 55.

John the Baptist, 165, 229.
Johnson, Dr., 309.

Kant, 87, 234, 237, 238,

249.

Karr, Alphonse, 214.
Kazan, 18, 44, 46, 47, 48.
Kingdom of God is Within You,

The, xix.

Knight, G. Wilson, xxii-xxiii.
Kolokoltsev, Grisha, 57, 58,

59, 60, 61, 62.
Krishna, 416, 418, 420, 423,

425, 427, 428, 431, 432.'
Kuropatkin, Alexey, 255.

Labouchere, 286.
Lamennais, 228.
Lao-Tsze, 148.
Larroque, Patrice, 219.
Lessing, G. E., 85.
Letourneau, Gh., 209.

Letters on Henry George,

xxi, 189.

Letter to a Hindu, xxv, 413.
Letter to a Japanese, xxvi,

440.

Lichtenberg, 238, 253.
Luther, 430.
Lyub6v Serg£evna, 50, 51.

Maistre* Joseph de, 207, 223.
Makarov, 253, 256, 257.
Manet, 138.
Marcus Aurelius, 29, 113,

237, 440.

Martens, F. F. de, 210, 226.
Marx, Karl, 183, 369.
Masha (Tolstoy's sister), 16,

55, 56-

Maupassant, Guy de, 100,
205.

Mazzini, J., 228, 234, 300.

Milford, Sir Humphrey,
xxvii.

Mishenka (Tolstoy's illegiti-
mate brother), 18.

Moch, Capital ne Gaston,
225.

Molinari, G. de, 205.

Moltke, von, 207.

Moore, George, xiii-xiv.

Moralities, the, 371, 372.

Muravev, 210, 226.

Mysteries, the, 371, 372.

Nazaroff, A. I., viii.
Nicholas I, 19.
— II, 200, 210, 255.
Nietzsche, 369.
Novik6v, 303.

Obolenski, D. A., 54.

Ochakov, 33.

Ogarev, N. P. (the exile),

104, 105, 1 06.
Olkhovik, 242.
101.

INDEX TO

Origen, 248.
Ostrovski, A. N., 380.

Parnell, 283.

Pascal, 218.

Peter the Great, 153.

Pickwick, 352.

Plato, 92.

Plevna, 197.

Pope, The, 378.

Potemkin, 10.

* Priests of Science', 152.

Prophecy, 162.

Pugachev, 34

Pushkin, A., 2, 30, 101, 380.

Quetelct, 228.'

Raskolnikov, 81, 82.
Recollection^^ XK-XX, I.
Redemption, the, 9<j, 104.
Richet, Charles, 218.
Rod, Edouard, 222.
Romanes Lecture, 1894, xxi.
Ruskin,John, 188.
Russo-Japanese War, xxii,
204 et seq.

Sacraments, the, 104.
Sakya Muni, 441.
Sand, George, 369.
Savage, Minot J., 233.
Scaevola, Mucius, 24.
Schiller, 47, 380.
Shakespeare, xxii-xxiii, 308

et seq.

Shaw, Bernard, xi, xix.
Shelley, 310.
Shibunin, 61, 62.
Sk6belev, M. D., 72.
Socrates, 98, 440.
Soviets, 500.
Soyen-Shaku, 261, 262.
Spencer, Herbert, 285.
Stasyulevich, A. M., 57, 58,

60, 61.

THIS VOLUME 503

Sterne, L., 5.
Stolypm, P. A., xxv.
Suzdal Monastery, xvii.
Swift, Jonathan, 209.

Taylorian Lecture, xv.
Temyashov, 30, 31, 39.

— Dvinechka, 29, 31.
Tillier, Claude, 214.
Tolstoy, Alexandra Andr6-

evna, 61, 62.

— Alexey, 380.

— Dmitri (brother), 16, 38,
41, 42, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49,
50, 5i> 52, 53» 54, 55>

5<>-

— Ilya (grandfather), 15.

— Leo N., vii— xxviii, 46, 234,

387.

— Marya (mdther), 1 1.
(Mashenka) (sister), 16,

55, 56-

— Nicholas (brother), viii,

15, ri> 38, 39. 43, 45> 48,
52*
(father), 17, 1 8, 26.

— Pelageya Nikolaevna
(grandmother), 5 et seq.

— Count Peter Ivanovich,
24.

— Sergey (brother), 16, 38,
39,40,45,46,48,49,52.

— Sergius (eldest son), xiv,
xxvii.

— r\ heodorc, 40.

Topffer, R., 5.

Traill, H. D., x.

Trubetskdy, Princess Cathe-
rine Dmftrievna (grand-
mother), 10.

Turgenev, I. S., 13,365.

Vedas, the, 416, 431.
Vigny, Alfred de, 229.
Vilejinsky, Adjutant, 254.
Vivekananda, 416, 417.

304 INDEX TO THIS VOLUME

Volk6nski, Prince (grand- Yasnaya Polyana, 52.

father), 14. Yazykov, 19, 20, 25, 29,

31-

War and Peace, 21, 25. Yushkov, V. I., 25, 51.

West, Rebecca, xiv. — Pelageya Ilymshna (Tol-

What is Art?, ix-xvi. stoy's aunt), 18, 27, 47, 51.
What Then Must We Do?, xix.

Wilhelm of Germany, Kaiser, Zola, E., 136 et seq., 150,

199. 152, 1 60, 1 66, 369.

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